


When Push Comes to Shove

by t_fic (topaz), topaz, topaz119 (topaz)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Challenge: SPN Big Bang, Community: spn_j2_bigbang, F/M, M/M, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-24
Updated: 2008-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/t_fic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz119
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're Winchesters--they're good at making sure that not dealing with things doesn't slow them down, and mostly, just doing the job is enough to let them not think about a lot of stuff. But some jobs are worse than others, and even a little time off isn't going to fix things after you let them go long enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2008 Supernatural/J2 Big Bang; art by [nyaubaby](http://nyaubaby.livejournal.com/65959.html). Thanks to without_me for the awesome beta. 
> 
> Spoilers through _No Rest For The Wicked_ , AU after that.

Judging by the sun--still high and merciless in the sky, so bright it bleaches the sky to the same washed-out, blistered tones as the sand and rock under Sam's hands and knees--hardly any time's passed at all. The Impala's still on the edge of the road where Dean had parked her, her finish dusty and lackluster from the blowing sand; Dean's still on his back, sprawled lax and unmoving, his blood dark against the rocks of Agua Fria. Sam stares, unblinking, until he sees Dean's chest move, the slightest of breaths.

There's nothing around them now, only the two of them as far as Sam can see, and it's quiet, but his ears are still ringing. Screams and howls, human and not, twisted together into a solid wall of sound that scraped his nerves raw. He watches Dean breathe, in and out and in, and then carefully, carefully reaches out and touches fingers that seem like they should be covered in blood to the pulse under Dean's jaw. His skin is warm against Sam's, and his pulse is sure and steady.

After a while, Sam makes himself break the contact and crawl to where his backpack lies half-covered in sand and grit, the contents spilled across the rocky ground. His watch tells him that everything--the fight, Dean on his knees, gasping, "Sammy, Sammy," with his last breath, and everything that followed--everything had only taken twelve minutes. Sam laughs a little, wondering who would believe him if he told them that time does run differently in Hell, then laughs harder at how he must look, on his hands and knees in the Arizona desert, clothes ripped and torn and filthy, laughing over his equally battered but still-breathing--God, _breathing_ \--brother. When the laughter shudders abruptly into sobs, he goes with it, curling himself around Dean and crying until he thinks his head might explode.

It's not just this job--though, god _damn_ was this not the maybe-slightly-more-complicated-than-a-routine-salt-and-burn either of them thought they were walking into--it's the whiplash of seeing Dean dragged down again, like _before_ ; the sickening feeling of not being able to stop it and the desperation of knowing how every second counted a hundred times over and not getting it right the first time meant nobody got a second chance. It's way too familiar and it crushes down heavy and hard on Sam.

When he finally looks up, it's still quiet around them, which he has no right to expect, he reminds himself. Just because they won this round doesn't mean there still aren't a thousand ugly things out there who'd be thrilled to put the Winchester brothers down for the count. He needs to be smart, to remember everything Dad tried to teach him, everything Dean did teach him, and keep Dean safe.

He pulls himself to his feet, slow and not exactly painful--his body's whole and unscarred, but his brain wants to tell him he's been burned and clawed and cut. He remembers every wound, but there's nothing physical to prove it. He can't get Dean up, though; not even cracking an ammonia carbonate capsule helps, and he ends up half-dragging him to the car, a hundred and eighty pounds of not-dead weight. He tells himself he'll worry about why he can't wake Dean up later; now he just has to find them a place to hole up.

There's a mostly full bottle of water on the floorboard; it's warm and stale but it goes down easy and when Sam trickles a little against Dean's mouth, he doesn't choke. Sam keeps trying while he pulls out his wallet and starts going through cards. The pure thrill of knowing Dean's drinking is tempered by the growing knowledge that every card he has, every card Dean has, is useless. They've gotten slack in the last year and the last month or so, it's been especially bad; they've blown through every card they have on them. They shouldn't have even looked twice at this job, but they don't pass on anything these days. It's easier that way. Sam's pretty sure there are one or two new cards waiting for them at one of the post office drop boxes Dean keeps up with, but none of _those_ are under a thousand miles away. He digs through the Ziploc that Dean keeps all the extras in, opening every single envelope, just in case he's missed something, but he's just going through the motions. He knows every card they have and all of them are at the "confiscate" stage. He sets them aside and starts going through the journal; since Lilith, he doesn't trust anyone but Bobby, and he's not going to bring the rain down on Bobby by calling him, but his dad's been known to make note of places that work for bolt holes. He doesn't need much, just someplace quiet and out of the way, where he and Dean can rest.

Dean groans just then, a small, pained sound that has Sam lunging over the back seat in time to see Dean's eyes flicker open and then back closed. He hasn't moved from where Sam lay him down, but he's breathing easier and Sam doesn't think it's just wishful thinking that he saw a flash of recognition before Dean went back out again. He props Dean up and carefully tips some of the water into the corner of Dean's mouth, smiling with satisfaction when Dean swallows. He watches Dean a while longer, then returns to the journal, determined to find somewhere to go.

He goes through every page, every scrap of paper, and barely restrains a whoop when he finds a piece of heavy, expensive letterhead, folded carefully and tucked between the last pages of the journal, addressed to one Cliff Burton.

 _Dear Mr. Burton, Once again, let us thank you for your assistance in resolving our most unusual problem. Should you ever find yourself in Las Vegas again, please do not hesitate to contact our reservations department for complimentary accommodations._

There's a pay-as-you-go cell phone in the trunk, activated but never used, paid for in cash. Sam gets it with shaking hands. The letter's dated just a few months before he'd left Stanford, and even if it's not as long ago as it feels, it's still been a couple of years.

The call goes through without any problem, though, and as soon as Sam mentions the name on the letter things move from pleasant customer service to the kind of attention that generally involves CEOs and rock stars. Within two minutes, Sam has a confirmed reservation under the name of C. Burton and no one's so much as hinted at a credit card guarantee.

Vegas, Sam thinks, as he disconnects the call. Dean'll love that.

***

It's not even 300 miles, but all the cash they have between them barely amounts to gas money, so by the time they hit Nevada, Sam's hungry and tired and smells exactly like it's been as long as it has since his last shower. His voice is almost gone; he's been talking non-stop, babbling anything he can think of in the increasingly long intervals that Dean's awake. They stop every hour or so and he gets more water into them both and after the third stop Dean manages to walk a few steps, circling the Impala and eyeing it for damage. That wears him out, though, and he's mostly out of it for the rest of the trip.

By the time Sam's navigating the exit off I-215, the sun's almost down; the neon lights of the Strip are all on, and with everything that's happened in the last day, Sam's not entirely sure he's not in some fantastical hallucination. He drives with what feels like exaggerated concentration, expecting Dean to start laughing at him at any second, but he can't screw up now, when they're so close. The directions they'd given him over the phone are precise and exact, down to the tenths of a mile, and his world narrows down to the paper he's scrawled them on, the odometer, and the road in front of him, until the road turns into the entrance of the hotel and a doorman steps out to meet them.

"Checking in?" he asks, his eyes flickering over the crumpled, filthy clothes Sam's wearing and Dean, still crashed out in the back. When Sam gives the name on the reservation, though, he snaps his fingers and two bellboys rush forward, and neither of them even blinks at the battered duffel bags Sam hands over or at him helping Dean out of the car.

A concierge meets them a step inside the lobby with card keys in hand, showing them to the direct elevator to their floor, and escorting them to their room, which turns out to be a suite, complete with living room and dining room and a Jacuzzi tub looking out over the Strip. Sam's too tired to be anything but grateful; he files away the hundred or so questions he has until he's clean and not starving and has maybe slept for a week. He might consider kicking Dean's ass over the stunt out in the desert, too, but he's ready to leave that decision for later, especially since Dean's flat-out on one of the beds and Sam can barely manage to get his disgusting clothes off before he falls onto the second.

***

The universe turns out to have other ideas, and Sam manages about five hours before the nightmares kick in. He isn't particularly surprised, but it doesn't mean he isn't still exhausted. He lies in the bed, listening to Dean breathe and watching the clock for 37 minutes before he finally gets up. The walls in the living room are slanted, like the attic of Pastor Jim's house, except the view is neon and electric instead of the top of the old oak tree. He watches the glow for a bit, hoping his subconscious will switch off of the loop it's on--Dean on his knees in the desert, followed by fire and blood and then back to Dean--but doesn't really expect much success there.

He showers and looks at the _For Our Guests_ book and reads the letter from the manager explaining the casino credits that have been assigned to the room. He thinks about going to find something to eat--the letter says that's all been taken care of, too--but ends up back in the bedroom, watching over Dean until the sky lightens and the sun rises. Dean mutters occasionally, curses and threats, and once Sam's name, but doesn't wake. By the time the sun's up, Sam's moved past pure exhaustion and fear and into trying to put together everything that went down.

He works his way through the incantation and the summoning, and knows exactly where things started twisting away from the plan, but then his brain goes right back to seeing Dean step in front of him and that endless, hideous second of knowing what they were going to do to him, and that there was nothing Sam could do to stop it. Again and again, that's all he can see, and it's just his kind of fucked-up irony that _that's_ when he finally can't keep his eyes open. His dreams are more like memories than hallucinations, flames twisting over his hands, a trail of blood he knows is Dean's; always alone, but always watched. He comes awake breathing hard and reaching for his knife, shaking, and still with that prickly feeling of eyes on him. All that's there, though, is Dean in a studied slouch, one shoulder against the wall and his eyes on Sam.

"What the hell, man?" Sam's heart's going like he just sprinted a mile and he can barely breathe for the adrenaline rocketing through his body. It's dark outside the windows again, but every light in the suite's on and the plasma TV over the fireplace is cycling through the pay-per-view previews.

"Good question, Sam," Dean says. "What the hell was that? Out in the desert?" He's still wearing the same jeans and t-shirt that he's had on for the last however many days, his face still grimy and dusty and smeared with what Sam knows is dried blood--his blood, Sam's blood, demon blood, all splattered and streaked across the stubble that's just starting to come in a little gray like Dad's had. "You remember--" Dean snaps his fingers to get Sam's attention back on the here and now and it's like putting a match to the anger simmering just under Sam's control. "C'mon, the part about how you could handle all that mojo, that you standing up there like a fucking lightning rod wasn't going to be a problem."

"I'm pretty sure I get first dibs on that question," Sam grits out, pushing away the flash to that endless second when Dean had folded to the ground. "I _told_ you I could handle it but the second I take my eyes off you, you're stepping in front of a fucking army of possessed zombies?"

"Oh yeah, that's what I was waiting to hear, nothing like 'Thanks, Dean, thanks for blocking those things out', not from you, huh, Sam."

"They _dragged you down_." Sam lets the anger out a little, to push the fear back. "I was set up to block them, twist them back--"

"Not from where I was standing, you weren't," Dean interrupts. "You didn't have control of the situation; I did what I needed to do." It's so like Dad used to be, always right, always _sure_ , Sam can't breathe.

"We swore, Dean," Sam says, forcing the words out past everything that's sitting heavy and hard on his chest: anger, fear, pain. "We swore: no more martyrs. We were done with that; we were partners. Equals."

"Yeah, well, thanks for pulling me out of hell again, there, partner. And you're welcome for the other part, too, the part where it wasn't you there to start with." There's a bitter undertone to Dean's voice and it rasps along Sam's anger, stoking it higher and higher so that he can hardly remember what it was like when they just fought over each other's crappy taste in music or what was for dinner or how early to get up in the morning.

Before he can say anything, though, Dean turns away, pulling his shirt over his head. "First shower," he says, like it's the end of any normal day. Sam could push it--hell, he could follow Dean into the ridiculously over-sized bathroom and start the whole argument all over again, but there doesn't seem to be a point. He flops back down on the bed and pulls a pillow over his head and of course, now that he needs to talk to Dean, his brain sends him straight to sleep and by the time he wakes back up, Dean's long gone with nothing more than a three-word note: _Out. Back later._

All things considered, it's probably for the best, but it still leaves Sam feeling off. There's not much he can do about it though, so he finds a pair of jeans and a shirt that don't look like they could stand on their own and decides to go see if he can find something to eat. Before he leaves, he writes a note to the maids, asking them to change the sheets on both beds--his skin crawls at the thought of sleeping on them again--and then scribbles, _Me, too_ on the one Dean left him. Two can play that game, he thinks, and closes the door behind him.

***

The hotel's huge, and Sam doesn't have any kind of plan so he's just wandering, but even getting turned around twice, he manages to find Dean in the casino without too much trouble. Dean nods at him, but doesn't make any effort to move from where he's lounging at a blackjack table so Sam turns down the offer of a complimentary cocktail--free to anyone at the tables, the waitress says--and keeps going in search of breakfast. He hopes he was polite, because she's just doing her job, but seriously, his watch says it's only seven in the morning and he's not quite up for that.

He passes on the buffet--maybe later--and a food court and ends up at a café that's tucked in behind all the serious restaurants. They're serving breakfast and they have WiFi and don't seem to care how long he hangs out. He's pretty sure he sees Dean walk by the entrance at least twice; he's half-annoyed and half-settled by it. When he signs for the check and detours back through the casino to check on Dean before he even thinks about it, he figures he needs to lose the half-annoyed part.

Dean's back at the same blackjack table, which is kind of surprising, because Sam didn't really think that was his game, but then maybe poker's just easier to play in the places they usually end up in. Whatever the reason, Dean doesn't look like he's going anywhere any time soon, so Sam dodges the waitress coming his way again and heads for the elevators. The suite is clean and quiet; he should probably start looking for another job, but once he leaves a message for Bobby, letting him know they made it through the last one, he winds up surfing the seventy-odd channels the TV gets and falling asleep on the couch.

He wakes up when Dean comes in and they do the not-exactly-not talking-to-each-other thing while the sun sets in an explosion of color outside the enormous windows. Sam thinks about marking the occasion, the first day after they probably shouldn't be here--again--but before he can think of anything suitable, Dean picks up the phone and calls for room service and the whole surreal thing hits Sam one more time. He can't help laughing at it all; Dean cocks an eyebrow at him as he finishes ordering steaks with all the trimmings: onion rings and fries and sautéed mushrooms, with creamed spinach on the side, which Dean always claims is for Sam, but Sam's never seen Dean not eat his fair share.

"You gonna share, or should I just assume I'm ready for an open-mike night?"

"Dude," Sam says, when he catches his breath. "We're in a 5-star hotel, in a _suite_. They're feeding us and I've turned down free booze twice already. I'll bet if we send the laundry out they'll take care of it, too--"

"Sammy," Dean interrupts. "You turned down the free booze? Have I taught you nothing?" He smacks Sam on the back of the head. "And don't forget, man, you're laundry bitch this week, so unless you're secretly planning on getting it on with the dirty stuff or you get off on the smell of Tide, you'd better be sending that shit out."

Dean still sounds a little forced, but he's trying and Sam is more than willing to go with it. The thought of two full duffels of clothes ranging from disgustingly filthy to only as clean as the last ancient laundromat could get them is enough to get him moving off the couch. Dean hijacks the remote and Sam only pretends to bitch about it. With the dirty clothes dumped out and random papers they've stuffed into the bags thrown all over the beds, it's almost normal.

Room service delivers dinner, setting everything up on the dining room table--the _dining room table_ \--while Dean signs the bill and Sam's back to surreal again.

"Seriously," Sam says, after they've paid the proper respect to the 20-ounce porterhouses on their plates, waving his fork around to encompass the whole suite. "What the fuck did Dad _do_ for these people?"

"No telling, Sam." Dean shrugs after a split second, reaching for his beer, all casual nonchalance, but Sam catches a flash of something that looks a lot like anger in his eyes. The little easiness they've found drains away.

"What?" Sam tries to keep his voice calm, he really does, but they're sort of past that now.

"Nothing, Sammy." Dean shoves his plate away and stands up. "I'm gonna head out again. Find a game with my name on it."

"Dean--"

"Don't wait up," Dean says, closing the door behind him.

Sam stomps down on the urge to throw his beer across the room, but he does slam it back down on the table hard enough to rattle the dishes and send foam bubbling onto the table.

It's not until hours later, after two crappy movies that would have been hysterical to watch and laugh at with Dean, and a round of virtual poker that he loses in pathetic fashion, that he realizes that there's no way Cliff Burton, Metallica's original bass player, was his dad.

***

Sam dreams again, the grit of the desert cutting into his palms, Dean nothing more than a shadow in the cold flames; when he makes himself wake, the other bed is still neat, clearly undisturbed, and there are no messages on his cell or on the room's voicemail. He talks himself out of leaving right away to see if he can find Dean, but once he's showered, it's only reasonable that he go get some breakfast. And it's just as easy for him to cut through the casino on his way back to the café, but when Dean's not there, he gives up and calls Dean's cell.

"Hey," he says, not surprised that it goes straight to voicemail, but not particularly happy about it either. "Call me, okay?" He doesn't know exactly how to make up for last night, and until he does, he's not even bringing the subject up.

The café isn't crowded, and the waitress remembers him from the day before, bringing him coffee and OJ along with the menu and the daily newsletter the hotel puts out. He glances at it, and maybe it's just that Dean's on his mind, but the first thing he sees is a write-up of a new show by that magician Dean always geeks out over on cable-- _Watch this, Sammy. Check out how this chick gets off on freaking people out_. The article isn't anything more than a glossy PR piece but at least if Sam's looking at it he's not checking his phone for messages every thirty seconds.

"They're in the last week of previews," the waitress says, seeing him reading as she drops off his pancakes. "Supposed to have opened last month, but…" She shrugs. "You name it, and it's gone wrong."

Sam tells himself he should take his time, but he's twitchy, not knowing where Dean is, so he eats quickly and walks back through the casino, where there's still no sign of Dean, and when he thinks to check the car, he can't find the ticket for the valet parking.

It's nothing, only a minor delay, but it feels like the proverbial straw. The ticket's just upstairs; he emptied pockets when he got the clothes ready to be sent out. The elevator takes forever to arrive and even the ride up to the top of the tower seems to take twice as long. He bangs the suite door open, moving fast, and nearly runs over the tall redhead wearing nothing but a towel who's backing out of the bathroom, laughing at Dean. Of course.

"Sorry," Sam says, taking a quick step back. He doesn't mean to sound quite so stiff and disapproving but he's not sure who he's madder at: Dean, for blowing him off without so much as a voicemail, or himself, for getting all torqued up over nothing. It's not like this is anything new.

"No, it's okay," the redhead says. "I really do have to be going." She scoops up an armful of clothes and disappears into the bedroom. At the very least, Sam expects to be getting the evil eye from Dean, but Dean just sighs, "Timing, Sammy. Timing," as he follows her. Sam stands awkwardly for a few seconds, not sure whether to stay or go and come back but then Dean laughs, really laughs, at something in the bedroom. It's been way too long since Sam's heard _that_ and before he can move, they're coming back out.

"I mean it," she's saying. "No more playing on my shift."

"No problem, sweetheart," Dean says. "Blackjack's not really my game."

"No kidding. I never would have guessed with the way you ran through that stack of chips," she says, pulling her hair up and weaving it through itself into a quick knot. Sam hides a smile at the sharp zip to her words.

"I was distracted," Dean says, grinning.

"Please," she says, rolling her eyes, but she can't quite keep a straight face. "He's always this bad, isn't he?" she says to Sam, picking up a small leather backpack and glancing around the room in that _Have I forgotten anything_ kind of way.

"Always," Sam agrees, sidestepping the elbow Dean throws as they head toward the door. He wanders over to the floor-to-ceiling window and watches the traffic move through the early morning, until the door closes and he can feel Dean watching him. "You could have called," he says, not looking away from the view.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I should have."

That's about as close as Sam's going to get to Dean actually admitting he was pissed, which means a straight-up apology isn't going to do any good.

"You know that magician you like?" Sam says instead. "The one who does the show out on the street, that you won't let me flip past?"

"Good-looking woman in leather, Sammy. The part where's she's screwing with people's brains is just a bonus."

"Yeah, well, she's got some kind of major show starting up here." Sam takes a deep breath and turns back to look at Dean. "I was thinking they'd probably comp us tickets for that, too. If you wanted to go."

Sam waits for the blow-off, the _Dude, there's a topless show right next door_ , but Dean just nods.

"Yeah," he says. "We could do that."

"Okay," Sam answers, then can't hold back the half-smile at the huge yawn that suddenly attacks Dean. "I'll, uh, see what they can do for us, for tonight."

"You do that," Dean mumbles. "I'm gonna go sleep for a couple, ten hours." Sam doesn't make the old man crack that's on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't have to. Dean can read it on his face. "Shut up; she's works on the floor in the casino, didn't get off her shift until seven."

"Did I say anything?"

Dean grunts something and Sam doesn't have to hear a word to know it's all about punk-ass little brothers not being allowed to say anything, especially when they're not even getting laid. Dean heads back into the bedroom; Sam sits down and lets the last nagging shred of worry go before he picks up the phone and calls the concierge.

***

"Oh, _hell_ , yeah," Dean says, catching sight of the bar as they find their way to their seats. "Gotta love Vegas, Sam."

"If you say so," Sam answers, but Dean's already angled off toward the bar. The room's set up with round tables, mostly big ones, but he finds their reservation number on a smaller one, along the wall, a couple of steps up from the floor. Even with only having called a few hours ago, they've clearly ended up with some of the best seats in the house, and Sam gets that surreal feeling again.

"Sweet," Dean says when he gets there, pushing his chair up against the wall so he can stretch his legs out and survey the crowd. Sam can't deny that having a wall at his back is definitely better than being out in the open. The stage is curved and low, maybe waist-high, with a catwalk and shallow steps down to floor level in the front. They could pack in more people if they ditched the tables, but this setup that gives the room a more intimate feel.

Dean slouches down, eyes half-closed. He's gotten about as much sleep as Sam has lately--Sam knows the sound of Dean jolting awake from the nightmares, choking back screams--but he's got that shuttered look that says they're not talking about it. Sam's not sure how much he can push things these days, so he keeps his mouth shut. The room's filling up fast, which is good people-watching but even that gets boring after a few minutes. Sam's actually glad Dean went and got them drinks--peeling the label off the bottle gives him something to do.

He gets into it after a bit, concentrating until he gets the entire label off in one piece, with only a little U-shaped tear near one corner. When he looks up, Dean's watching him with no real expression. Sam half-shrugs, smoothing the label out carefully on the table. This time, Dean shakes his head and Sam can almost hear the _dork_ Dean's thinking, but the lights go down and a quick, sharp drum starts up.

The show starts off fast with a levitation and never lets up, rocketing along at a hectic pace driven by the heavy techno beats of the DJ mixing live off to the side of the stage. Sam can appreciate the work that has to go into making something like this, the split-second timing and the sheer physicality of it, but he still doesn't get into it like Dean does. Maybe it's just that he knows there's a trick and he's seen too many things that are real. It doesn't matter, though--he keeps sneaking looks at Dean, kicked back and seriously having a good time and that's not something Sam can often take credit for, especially not lately.

Everything's fine, right up until the end, an escape from a suspended, fire-engulfed barrel, with timing and music so precise that it really does catch Sam's attention. He's watching closely, keeping the whole stage in view, working out where everyone's slipped off to, so he sees it clear as day when the first assistant, a guy Sam vaguely recognizes from the TV show, stumbles and falls, a nasty twisting tumble, hard enough that he doesn't get up. It happens fast, right as Melina appears through the smoke and flames and the audience is buzzing with adrenaline.

"You see that?" Dean asks, under cover of the cheers of the audience.

"That didn't look like natural stumble to me." The stage goes dark, waiting for the encore bow, but there's no curtain. Sam can just barely make out a clump of people huddled around where he saw the assistant fall.

"Yeah, it looked like somebody took him down, only there wasn't anybody near him." Dean's watching the shadowed group just as closely.

"The waitress at breakfast said the opening's been delayed. Weird problems," Sam says.

"Weird how?"

"She didn't say."

"Well, how 'bout you find that out, and I'll see if I can get anything here." Dean puts his beer down and starts off toward the stage, looking back and frowning at Sam. "Problems, Sammy?"

"You sure you don't want a second pair of eyes?" Sam says, even though he knows the answer.

"Nah," Dean says. "I wouldn't say no to an EMF meter, but since they're all out in the car, I'm just going to go see what I can see and check that later."

Sam nods and finishes off his beer. It's the logical thing to do, splitting up covers more ground, all very normal, except for the part where he distinctly feels like he's being ditched.

***

The waitress from breakfast doesn't come on until 5 and the guy who's working the overnight shift isn't particularly friendly, so Sam signs for his latte and heads back upstairs to do some online research. Google gives him thousands of hits, which is kind of refreshing given that he's usually starting with nothing, but the novelty wears off somewhere after the hundredth breathless fan site, with nothing new and very little even spelled right.

Dean calls while he's taking a few notes.

"Nobody's talking," Dean says. "But it's that not-talking where I know damned good and well something freaky's going on."

"I got nothing online that you couldn't have told me," Sam says. "Melina Kominos, thirty-three, born and raised in New York, early career more hustling than performing, big breakthrough was about five years ago in a Vegas revue." He rubs at the headache behind the bridge of his nose. "Cable shows, network specials...if I have to read one more quote about how Houdini was a huge influence in her life, I might throw up."

"As long as you don't puke in my bed, Sammy, that's between you and your laptop."

"Your concern is touching, as always." Sam can hear noise in the background, voices and music, a big crowd, like you get in a casino. Dean covers the phone. Even so, Sam can hear him talking to someone on his end, and from the rhythm and cadence of his voice, he's flirting.

"Hey, look, I did get one thing," Dean comes back on to say. "The assistant is her cousin; see if you can find anything there."

"Did you get a name--"

"Gotta run, Sam," Dean says and the call goes dead.

"No problem," Sam says, to his phone. "You have a good time there, big brother."

He puts the phone down carefully, so he doesn't throw it across the room and stares at the screen. He should see what he can find out now; it's not like this would be the first time he's researched while Dean hung out and did his thing. Instead, he scrawls _cousin?_ across the bottom of his notes and goes to bed.

Lilith smiles at him this time, her true face fading in and out of the fire, her laughter shivering high over the screaming--the old nightmares mixed with the new--waking him and when he squints at the clock, it's the usual five hours. He lies there for a few minutes, but it's pretty clear his brain isn't going to let him get any more sleep, so he might as well go see if the friendly waitress is willing to give him a little inside dirt on Melina and her cousin and whatever problems they've been having. He's sweaty and thirsty, though, so a bottle of water and a shower are in order first.

He doesn't notice them until he's all the way out of the bedroom, and then it's like he's fallen back asleep and somehow wandered into a weird Oedipal variation on a wet dream. It's only Dean's voice that convinces him that what he's seeing is real, Dean and a woman on the floor between the hot tub and the full-length windows, the only illumination coming from the underwater lights and the neon outside and far below.

It's happened before, Sam walking in on Dean and one of his girls, but not since before Sam left for school and back then, even the thought of sex was enough to send Sam stammering and blushing out of the room. He's set to do that now, minus the blushing, but then Dean looks up and sees him and smiles. Sam's seen that smile before--it's the one that comes out when Dean's baiting a scam, luring some dumb hick into double-or-nothing on the pool table. It says he knows exactly how fast Sam's going to run from this, and it's enough to plant Sam's feet firmly on the floor.

He holds Dean's eye long enough to know he's gotten to Dean. That probably shouldn't give him such satisfaction, but it's like scoring a hit in a prank war, even after Dean goes back to focusing on the girl on the floor with him.

Her hair's spread out on the floor around her head, red and wavy, distinctive enough to clue Sam in that it's the same woman he met wrapped up in a towel the day before. Knowing that makes everything even more real. He knows how she laughs and what her voice sounds like and how she looks at Dean with a sort of exasperated fondness that feels so familiar.

The sky outside the window is lightening toward dawn, but it's the underwater lights that let Sam see the shift and play of muscles under Dean's skin. In the dreams, the nightmares, the _memories_ , that skin's scratched and scored, sheened red with Dean's blood. Sam drinks in its perfection now, smooth and whole, and it's still not light enough to see the freckles across Dean's shoulders, but he knows they're there.

He's not sure when the satisfaction of seeing the living proof of the debacle they dodged morphs into something more, into seeing _Dean_ , hearing him, and falling so far past turned on Sam almost forgets how to breathe, but it happens between heartbeats and he's grateful for the doorway to lean against. He should leave, he knows that, but he's not going anywhere, he knows that, too. It doesn't matter that he's wearing nothing but a t-shirt and some sweatpants, old and soft and stretched out; they're still too much. He wants nothing but air against his skin--or he could work with knowing what Dean feels like, a little voice whispers in his head. It wouldn't be all that different than the hundred thousand casual touches over the years, except in all the ways it would be.

"C'mon, baby. C'mon." She's barely murmuring, voice husky and low, but it's as loud as a shout in Sam's head, a sharp reminder of just how fucked-up this all is. Dean's quiet when he comes, nothing more than the change in his breathing tipping Sam off. He looks up again, though, and there's enough light from the rising sun now that Sam can see everything, from the tremors rippling across shoulders and arms to the way Dean's pupils have all but eaten the green. Sam takes it all in, everything that Dean's giving him, and wants more, greedy and possessive, watching until Dean drops his head to mouth along the curve of her jaw, and then he stumbles back into the bathroom. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he fights to get his clothes off, eyes just as blown as Dean's, hair wild and out of control.

The shower's loud enough to drown out any noises that might be coming from the other room, and the water's hot against his back as he leans against the wall and strips his cock with hands that he can't pretend are anything but shaking and eager.

***

The suite's empty when Sam gets out of the shower, everything tidied away, no sign that he'd been invited to stand and watch his brother have sex. It's what he expected, but he shouldn't be so relieved not to have to deal with the whole mess just yet. He grabs his laptop and escapes downstairs.

The table in the back corner is open again and the same waitress has coffee and juice in front of him almost before he slides onto the chair.

"Thanks, Deb," he says, finally paying attention to the name tag pinned to her white blouse.

"No problem," she answers. "What'll it be this morning?"

Sam does his best to not appear completely brain-dead, but even trying to decide between pancakes and an omelet is apparently too much to ask his brain.

"How about I just let you think about it," Deb says after a moment, heading off to deal with a group of older women, clearly fresh off their early-morning turn at the slot machines and ready to wreak a little havoc on their diets.

Sam drinks his coffee and tells himself to shut it down, to take the loop of Dean watching him watch and shove it in the box labeled _Family Shit_ to be dealt with later. He's managed that all through his life; he should be able to do it now, when it's just breakfast on the line. By the time Deb comes back, he's at least figured out that he wants something different, not the same diner breakfast he's always had, except for while he was with Jess. It's pretty transparent--and pathetic--as gestures go, but if eggs Benedict is what it takes to keep things compartmentalized, he's going with it.

Of course, he's no sooner got the plate in front of him, complete with steamed asparagus and a fresh fruit and flower garnish than Dean throws himself into the seat across the table, all smooth moves and casual attitude, except for the shadows under his eyes and the way his mouth never quite relaxes.

"Please don't tell me you actually ordered that," Dean says.

"Okay, fine, I won't tell you." Sam pretends not to notice Dean gagging as he cuts into the eggs and lets the yolks mix with the sauce. "It's nice," he says, scooping up a bite. "Very lemony." He takes his time, to maximize gross-out factor. As disgusting things go, it's way down on the scale, but it's basically a freebie, so there's no sense in hurrying.

Dean actually does look a little green by the time Sam finishes dragging an asparagus spear through the mess, but recovers enough to order a bacon cheeseburger and gravy-cheese fries when Deb shows back up. Given that it's not even nine in the morning, it's Sam's turn to be a little sickened.

He watches Dean as he eats, trying to figure out how they ended up like this, but as soon as he opens his mouth, Dean cuts him off.

"No, Sam, we really do not need to talk about it."

Sam grits his teeth but doesn't back down. "Yeah, Dean, we really do--"

"What's to talk about?" Dean swallows down the last bite of cheeseburger and drags a fry through the half-bottle of ketchup he's dumped on the plate. "You get off on watching. Not exactly a world-class kink, little brother."

"Leaving out the part where you got off, too, that's not what I'm talking about." Sam deliberately loosens his grip on his fork and forces his voice to stay low, if not calm. "I'm talking about the way we keep push--"

"I said, leave it, Sam." Dean shoves his plate toward the center of the table and stands up. "Talk to your girl here and see if she knows anything that'll help. I'm gonna go see if I can run an EMF sweep over that stage."

Sam bites back the comment that's dying to be said, the one where if Dean hadn't taken the night off to fuck around, he'd already know if there was EMF on the stage. The last thing they need is to get into it in public, because there's a growing certainty in Sam's head that when they do, it's not staying verbal. Getting tossed from the room when they're still cleaned out for cash is really not a good idea.

His eggs are cold and congealed and way up on the disgusting scale now, the yellow of the yolks swirled into the paler yellow of the hollandaise and dripping down over the bright green of the asparagus. Deb shows up right as he's poking at the mess and trying to decide if he's still hungry. She has a plate of pancakes and bacon in one hand and a little pitcher of maple syrup in the other.

"Figured you might want to switch off for something a little less… colorful," she says. "It's what you had yesterday, but I can get you something different if you want." She swaps the plates efficiently and is gone almost before Sam can thank her.

He eats absentmindedly, letting his mind wander under cover of surfing on his laptop, trying to figure out what they need to be doing after they sort through whatever Dean thinks is going on here. Deb deals with the middle-aged crowd and keeps his coffee cup full, and when he comes out of his zone, it's easy to catch her eye.

"Check?" she asks.

"Yeah, that'd be great," he answers, because it's almost always easier to strike up a conversation when they think you're on your way out the door. She tucks the hotel newsletter in with his tab this time, and it's practically an engraved invitation.

"We got a chance to check out Melina's show last night," Sam says, before she can leave. "Very fast-paced." Maybe it's just because he feels the same way, but Sam can almost see Deb's eyes rolling behind the noncommittal, corporate face she wears. "Still having some problems, though."

"You weren't supposed to notice that." There's a flash of a genuine smile in her eyes. "That's what everyone said, when they came in here to figure out the damage control. It happened so fast that no one would have noticed."

"My brother and I, we're pretty sharp about stuff like that," Sam says.

"I'll remember that," Deb says, and Sam doesn't doubt it at all..

"I remembered you said they'd had problems all along." Sam keeps his voice light, keeping his his attention on the check and figuring the tip.

"Well, this is the first time anyone's gotten hurt. The other stuff--things weren't up to Melina's standards, so they've been firing musicians and rewiring the whole place and stuff like that. She's a perfectionist."

"You, uh, say that like you have personal experience," Sam says, because he can hear the air-quotes in her voice.

"We're open 24-7." Deb shrugs. "All kinds of people end up in here, not just the ones who come out of the casino trance and realize they haven't eaten in a couple of days." She's looking at him curiously, like she's trying to figure out why he cares, but when she takes the check, she adds, "She really wasn't happy. People don't get hurt on her watch, that was what she kept saying this morning. One of the suits made the mistake of saying it was just a broken ankle, nothing life threatening and I thought we were going to have to pick little bits of him out of the carpet."

Sam nods and lets it drop. His gut's telling him he's pushed far enough--and honestly, it doesn't sound like there's anything worth pushing for; the whole thing is starting to feel like nothing but some bad luck. The only reason Sam isn't writing it off completely is the utterly impossible way the guy fell. Well, that and having been raised to know there was bad luck in the world, but how what most people thought of as luck, wasn't.


	2. Chapter 2

  
**\-- 2 --**   


 

When he gets back to the room, Sam expects to find Dean sleeping off the night, but there's no sign that Dean ever came back, and there's only so much note-taking he can do before the suite becomes less of a quiet, calm oasis and more of an oppressive box. Especially when the big find of the day is a couple of posts on a gossip site, insinuating that the only reason Melina's doing the Vegas show is to hide her lack of ability under the glitz of the Strip. He's not even a fan and he's rolling his eyes at the envy.

As he starts considering his options--if Dean wants him, Dean can track him down, Sam's tired of being the one sitting around waiting--the untraceable cell vibrates in his pocket, with one of Bobby's spoof numbers showing. Bobby barely lets him answer.

"What in _hell_ did you boys get into out there in the desert?"

"It, uh, got a little complicated," Sam says.

"Well, no shit," Bobby answers. "Zombies usually do. I hear the half of the hunters that didn't want to put you down after your little dance with Lilith are out for your blood now, 'cause the two of you took off on your own."

"Damn good thing we did, too," Sam says. "Most of the trouble we had was because of that idiot who thought he was dealing with a couple of ghosts instead of zombies. He burned half the cemetery before he stopped to think that maybe it wasn't working. At least us dropping him off at the sheriff's office meant he missed out on the damned lynch mob."

"I didn't say you weren't right," Bobby says. "I just said you stepped on a few toes. But all that don't even count the Feds out looking for you."

"What? How did they find out we--" Sam starts.

"Well," Bobby says. "They don't know they're looking for _you_ ; they're just hell-bent on finding whoever it was that put a fireball on Park Service lands."

"Oh," Sam says, wincing. "That. Yeah, they, uh, kind of got us a little off guard. We had to go in before they scattered. But we weren't close to anything important." He thinks. "And the fire didn't actually burn anything, it just got... showy."

Bobby sighs. "I swear, every time I think you two might put your brains together and come up with an actual thought, you go and prove me wrong." Sam mumbles an apology, because, well, yeah. Not exactly their best job ever and nobody but him and Dean even knows the worst of it. Bobby just sighs again. "You said you were holed up someplace safe?"

"Bobby," Sam laughs, looking around the suite. "You wouldn't believe it if I told you."

"Yeah? Don't tell me," Bobby says. "Just sit tight until some of this crap dies down. I'll call you if I hear anything."

"Okay," Sam says, sighing. "We can stay here."

"And try real hard not to do anything stupid," Bobby says.

The call goes dead and Sam drops his head back against the couch. Not that he thought Dean would let go of the Melina thing--he hasn't let _anything_ go, not since he could stay on his feet for more than a minute or two after Lilith had dragged him back out of hell, and if Sam's being honest, he's been right there with Dean, because it's so much easier to hunt than deal--but he'd held out a little hope that Bobby might have had something enticing.

He tucks the phone away and goes back to thinking of something to do, because right now, he needs to get the hell out of this room, before he goes crazy. The casino doesn't hold any appeal for him, and the shows don't start until later in the day, but the pool is suitably lavish and tacky, and the concierge is happy to help him out there, too. He makes a quick detour through a couple of the shops, loading up on the necessities and if he's buying things based on how much they'll annoy Dean, at least he's spending the hotel's money on it. Sitting in a private cabana with a drink and a chilled towel is like some kind of karmic reimbursement for all the empty and broken pools he'd grown up seeing every time Dad had checked them into a new motel.

For whatever reason, there are a ton of kids around, shrieking and yelling and generally having a blast on the water slides. The noise and a novel he'd grabbed from the gift shop are enough to keep him from brooding and when his phone rings just before sunset, he's about as mellow as he's been lately, which isn't saying much, but he's taking whatever he can get these days.

Not even Dean telling him to high-tail it into the casino is enough to crack his mood, especially when Dean catches sight of him in board shorts and aloha shirt. Sam slows his pace to the lazy amble that he knows drives Dean insane even at the best of times and enjoys every second of Dean clenching his jaw so tight Sam can almost hear his teeth grinding.

"Sorry to interrupt your tanning time there, Sammy, but Kasey just heard something kind of interesting."

"And Kasey is?" Sam drawls, then feels himself blushing hard and fast when the pit boss standing behind Dean, the tall woman in a black suit so simply cut Sam can hear Jess sighing _Armani_ in the back of his head, turns around and smiles a familiar smile at him.

"Me," she says, holding out her hand. "We, uh, haven't been formally introduced."

"Sorry," Sam manages to say as he takes it. He's deliberately not looking at Dean, not needing to to know that the irritated glare's morphed into the self-satisfied smirk.

"Don't worry about it." Kasey smiles and slants a glance at Dean. "There hasn't exactly been a good time for pleasantries."

"Kasey, Sam," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "Sam, Kasey. Can we get on with the important stuff now?"

Kasey shrugs, but turns back to Sam. "I was getting set up for my shift, seeing who I had on the floor, checking with security about any issues I need to be aware of, things like that." She taps the clipboard she's carrying and smiles a little. "Usually, that means guests who've had too much to drink or maybe somebody was upset and making a scene. Card counting, slow play, things like that, not that somebody got through security and physically attacked a performer."

"Melina's show?" Sam isn't really asking; Dean wouldn't have dragged him inside for anything not related to her.

"Got it in one," Dean says, leaning back against the wall in a lazy slouch that doesn't fool Sam. He knows Dean's itching to be _doing_ ; the standing around is Dean's least favorite part of a job, even when he's not already strung-out and not sleeping. "Pretty damn odd after last night."

"It's weird," Sam agrees, keeping his voice low. "But I don't know if it's our kind of weird."

"I don't know if it's your kind of trouble, but things like that just don't happen here," Kasey says. "I've worked plenty of places that say they have security, but this is the big leagues here. They take it beyond seriously."

Sam nods slowly. He's seen the discreet security guys, but he knows there are a lot more whose job it is to be invisible.

"I don't know, Dean," he says. "I'm not finding jack connected to Melina, or her cous--"

"Get us into tonight's show," Dean says, ignoring Sam in a way that makes Sam itch to blow up. "I wanna check things out, sweep as much as we can for EMF."

Dean knows exactly what he's doing, exactly how much his tone gets to Sam; Sam holds on tight his control, because _he_ knows it'll piss Dean off a little bit more not to get a reaction. He shrugs and pulls out his phone. "Early show or late?"

"What do you think," Dean snaps. "We're gonna need to crawl all over the stage."

"Awesome," Sam says. "I have dinner reservations at seven; I probably wouldn't be finished in time for the early show."

Dean's jaw tightens, but he turns away and stalks off without throwing the punch Sam knows is coiled up tight in his shoulder. It's less satisfying than Sam expects it to be, and he dials the number with a sigh. The concierge is quick and efficient and they have seats for the ten o'clock show in minutes. He texts the confirmation number to Dean and makes himself send it without adding any editorial comments.

"Not that I know all that much about what he does," Kasey says, looking at Sam thoughtfully. "What the two of you do, obviously. But comparatively speaking, this doesn't seem like enough to spin a guy like Dean up quite this tight."

"Sorry," Sam says. "It's been a long... year. Couple of years. We're kind of getting on each other's nerves. A lot." He scrubs hard at the bridge of his nose, right where the headaches always start. "It doesn't really matter now, I don't think, but what was it that Dean took care of back then?"

"Poltergeists?" She pitches her voice low, so no one can hear. "There had been a lot of renovations and they were disturbed. More than one, and not like anything I'd ever heard about them."

"They can be vicious," Sam tells her. "Not just little tricks, like the stories that get told around a campfire."

"It was...scary," Kasey says. "Terrifying. Walls bleeding, windows imploding, elevator cables fraying… A couple people landed in the hospital. I came here as a dealer during the middle of it. By the end, before Dean did whatever it was that he did, got rid of them, things were horrible. It was impossible to keep anyone working here. The whole place was on the edge."

One of the dealers comes up then, and Sam steps back to let Kasey take care of things. She walks off a few steps with the guy, words flying back and forth, rapid-fire. When she turns back, it's clear it's just to say good-bye.

"Uh, Kasey, look, do you have another minute or two? There's something I need to talk to you about." Sam can feel the blush starting, and he hasn't even gotten to the cringe-worthy stuff yet. It needs to be said, though, so he waits while she sends the dealer off. "I, uh, wanted to, um…"

Kasey tucks her pen behind her ear. "Look," she says. "I spend eight, ten hours a day being diplomatic and defusing things before they go from inconveniences to charges being filed. I'm pretty plain-spoken the rest of the time. Whatever it is, just say it. Trust me, I'll have heard worse."

"Yeah. Okay." Sam takes a deep breath and lets it sigh out. "I'm sorry for this morning." As hot as it feels, his face has to be beet red now. "About not leaving. I'm sorry. It was intrusive and inappropriate."

"Was it really an accident?" Kasey cocks her head at him, her gaze sharp and assessing, not missing a thing, Sam's sure. She might spend her days defusing things, but she also runs the floor and that's not a job for a push-over. "Or was it a set-up?"

"No!" Sam manages to keep his voice down, but just barely. "I swear I didn't know you were out there; I just wanted a bottle of water and--"

"It's okay," she says, and she's not laughing at him, but it's close. "Dean said it was an accident; I was just double-checking."

"No, yeah, it was. Completely an accident. And, and, yeah, I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted," Kasey says, smiling for real this time. "Not that I necessarily have a problem with it happening even if it's not an accident," she adds. "I just like to be in on the decision-making process."

She gives him another not-quite-laughing-at-him smile as she turns to walk off. After a bit, Sam manages to get his jaw off the ground and gets his ass back out to the cabana, but he can't help wondering how much of that she's said to Dean, too.

***

The pool's lost a little of its easy charm, but it's still better than brooding in the room, so Sam drinks a couple more beers and finishes his book before he goes back up to shower. Anytime he's asked about dress codes, he's always been assured that anything is fine, but since he's set up for a real restaurant, not the café he's been practically living in, he digs out the suit he uses whenever they need to look respectable on a job.

In the end, he could have ordered the same steak from room service, but at least this way he has something new to look at while he eats alone. He halfway expects Dean to show up, like he did for breakfast, tossing aside the menu and asking for another bacon cheeseburger, but the extra seat across from him stays empty all the way through dessert.

It's empty at the table Dean insisted he reserve for the show, too, well after things get started; after intermission, even. He's alone long enough to work his way through two beers and start considering all the ways he can pay Dean back for blowing him off. He's gotten to non-permanent alterations to the car when Dean slides into the other chair and steals his beer.

"Ass," Sam hisses, grabbing for the bottle. Dean holds him off easily, mostly because Sam isn't quite ready to cause a scene.

"Aww," Dean whispers. "You missed me."

Sam shouldn't even dignify that remark with a response, but he can't help tightening his mouth, which is enough to put a full-on smirk on Dean's face. Luckily, a waitress comes by with a fresh beer, and Sam snatches it off the table before Dean can, which only earns him a sidelong look from the waitress as she takes Dean's order.

"Easy there, Sammy," Dean says. "There's plenty more where that came from." He smiles like he's sharing a joke with the waitress-- _So impatient, such a brat, what can you do with him?_ \--but his smile doesn't really reach his eyes. That's how Sam can tell he's doing it just to piss Sam off. Even knowing it though, he still has to count backward from a hundred. Dean flirts a little, but eventually orders a beer for himself, so Sam doesn't say any of the ten or twenty nasty comments that occur to him and starts trying to pay attention to the show again.

"They're not too smooth tonight," Dean comments. Sam nods. It's not just the re-staging they've done to make up for Alex's absence. Melina's timing is off, forced. It's as though Sam's watching her through an imperfect window as she sets up each trick, like he could catch how the trick works if he watched out of the corner of his eye.

"The crowd isn't as into it either," Sam says. The previous night, Melina had had the audience eating out of her hand, but tonight, she's working for every second of applause.

"Well, you are. In fact, I think you're star-struck," Dean says as they applaud politely at the end of the show. "She always comes out to talk with the audience. She signs shit and all that. You're going to be her number one fan while I get backstage."

"Dean--" Sam starts, but Dean's gone, working his way back toward stage left and the shadows in the corner of the room. A part of Sam wants to follow him and have things out right here and now, but his feet are moving toward the knot of fans gathered in front of the stage, to set up the diversion, be the bait, lay down the covering fire. Be the good little brother.

He stands on the fringes of the group, angling himself so he can see the length of the stage, giving his best impression of eager anticipation while he waits for the crowd to thin and--more importantly--for Dean to roll up onto the stage. He catches the quick flicker of motion that's his brother in stealth mode right as the woman in front of him starts stammering out her excitement at actually being so close to Melina jumbled together with her pride in a girl from the neighborhood making good.

Melina handles it all with a deft and--to Sam's eye--surprisingly humble touch, sharing a couple of brief stories about churches and schools and posing for a picture with the woman, taken by an obviously mortified teenage daughter. When she turns to Sam, though, there's nothing humble in how she runs her eyes over him. Dean would love it, would be throwing the same attitude right back at her. It mostly just annoys the shit out of Sam.

"Thanks for waiting," she says, with a smile that's as false as the previous one had been sincere. "It's always a pleasure to meet someone who's a big enough fan to see me two nights in a row."  


"I guess I'm busted." Sam smiles back with equal insincerity. "I've always been fascinated by magicians and how they make things happen."

"Years of practice," Melina answers, her voice edging toward brittle.

"I don't doubt it," Sam says. "This is all a little bit different than everything else you've done, though."

"I like trying new things," she says. "A show on this scale lets me do so many things that a street show can't handle."

 _And the payday definitely doesn't suck either_ , Sam thinks, but he tries to look impressed. At least he has a play card for her to sign; it was the only thing on the table other than the card with the drink prices on it. Predictably, Melina has a flashy autograph, her name taking up the entire length of the card.

"Where's your friend?" she asks, as she hands the card back. Sam reminds himself that she's made a very good living off reading people. He's good at faking people out, but he doubts that he's fooling her much.

"Right here," Dean says, coming up behind Sam. From how she narrows her eyes, Sam's pretty sure Melina hadn't seen Dean before he spoke, and he's positive that it bothers her a whole lot more than she wants to let on.

"Oh, hey, look." Dean takes the card out of Sam's hand. "You got your autograph." Sam grits his teeth at the condescension in Dean's voice, not caring at all whether Melina sees. "He's a big fan," Dean says to Melina. "I can't keep him away. It's really nice of you to come out and make people's dreams come true like this."

Every time Sam thinks Dean can't possibly get more irritating, he'll do something like this to top himself. The smirk he turns on Sam is proof enough that he knows exactly how much Sam wants to throttle him right now.

"Yeah," Sam makes himself choke out. "Thank you for this." He waves the paper with as much faked enthusiasm as he can muster, and if he comes a little too close to Dean's face, so he has to jerk back, well, too much excitement will do that to you. "Do you always change assistants between shows?" Sam manages to keep from poking Dean's eye out with the corner of the card by the slimmest of margins; the set of Dean's shoulders promises retribution, but that's nothing compared with the annoyance that flashes in Melina's eyes at his question.

"No," she says, short and crisp. "Alexander, my cousin--he's been with me since the beginning. He was a little under the weather, so we switched things around a bit." An older woman touches Melina lightly on the arm and Melina forces a smile that's as strained as the one on Sam's face. "I'm sorry," she lies, not even trying to cover it. "I have to go now. Thank you for coming to the show."

"Sammy wouldn't have missed it for the world," Dean says, but Melina's already walking swiftly across the stage.

Sam keeps quiet until they're back out into the lobby and the general noise level is enough to cover him hissing, "God, could you _be_ any more obnoxious?" Dean smirks and Sam rubs at the bridge of his nose again, pushing back the headache. "Never mind."

"You sure you don't want an answer?" Dean threads his way through knots of people, dodging the ones bound for the casino on a mission and the tourists gawking at the murals on the walls and the open interior with equal ease, aiming for an empty grouping of couches and tables. "Good," he says when Sam shrugs. "Now can we maybe get down to some business here?" He pulls his EMF meter, the one that looks like an MP3 player, out of the pocket of his jacket and waves it in Sam's face. "Lit up all over the stage."

"Define 'lit up,'" Sam says. Dean drops down onto a couch and props his feet on the table. Sam kicks them down as he passes by; Dean has them back up before Sam even reaches the next chair, but it's the principle that counts.

"Solid ones and twos everywhere I could get to--" That's weak and Dean knows it without Sam having to tell him. "And three lights where the cousin went down last night."

"Dean," Sam sighs. "That's--I'm finding _nothing_ on the research and that's barely more than nothing there. It could be anything--even just left over from before."

"Or it could be something," Dean says. "That guy's two for two in weird, nasty shit happening to him over the last couple of days, and that's just the stuff that's been public. I couldn't get back into the dressing rooms, but it was staying lit up even heading back that way."

"And I repeat, _anything_ could be causing it."

Dean sits up, puts his feet on the floor so he can take the meter out of his pocket and slap it down on table. It's quiet, no lights or sounds, and Sam takes his point.

"We should keep digging, is all I'm saying." Dean's jaw is set.

"Fine," Sam says, rubbing his face. "What do you suggest we do next?"

"See what's in the dressing rooms, work from there." Dean stands in the quick, fluid motion Sam's never been able to match. "Give them a couple of hours to settle down and clear out first."

"Whatever. I'm gonna go crash." Sam stands up, too. "Come get me when you want to go."

"What? No reservations for the late-night hours?"

"Shut up, Dean. It's not like I'm the one who--" Sam stops, deliberately closes his mouth and edges around the table.

"You're not the one who what, Sam?" Dean's voice is tight and sharp.

"Never mind." Sam keeps walking. "You know where to find me when it's time to go chase whatever it is you think we're chasing." He stops for a second. "Unless you want the room tonight."

"Is that what this is about?" Dean asks. "This whole prissy little bitch attitude you've got working is cause of a chick?"

"You're kidding me, right?" Sam shakes his head in disbelief. "You think, after all these years of watching you work that punk-ass attitude, I give a flying _fuck_ what you do on your own time?"

"I think 'watch' is the operative word here."

Sam counts to ten, but he knows he could count to a thousand and it wouldn't make a difference. "Actually," he snaps, nightmares fresh and vivid in his mind. "You're right. But not how you mean."

"Aw, that's too bad," Dean says, and he's all but purring with satisfaction. "Because I was gonna say that you didn't have to just watch if you didn't want to."

Sam can feel the slow heat across his cheeks, but he meets Dean's smug little smirk as evenly as he can. "Let me get this straight," he says, slow and deliberate, because as much as he wants to think he's jumping to conclusions, the expression on Dean's face, half-mocking, half-daring, is telling him he's not. "You're offering--no, wait--you're _inviting_ me to--"

"Get down off that high horse and come roll around with the rest of us? Yeah." Dean whistles mock-admiringly. "Guess Stanford really did know what they were doing with that full ride they gave you."

There's a second when Sam's sure that Dean wants him to start throwing punches, and then another second when he thinks Dean wants him to walk out the door and keep going, never come back, but then it all twists back to Dean on the floor, looking up at Sam as he comes. Sam shakes his head and turns blindly to go, not caring if Dean thinks he's running away.

***

In the end, after an hour of sitting in the atrium and staring blankly at the crowds, a latte going cold in his hands, Sam doesn't begin to pretend he's not going to take Dean up on his offer. He's not sure he gets points for honesty, but at least to himself, he's not going to make up excuses or elaborate explanations for why he's going back to the suite. He doesn't bother turning on lights when he gets inside, just pulls a beer out of the mini bar and drinks it at what's become his favorite spot in the room, next to the couch, looking out the window at the Strip. It's a hell of a lot easier not to think that way.

He doesn't look up when the door opens, just keeps watching the cars moving slowly down the road until there's a hand sliding up his arm and Kasey's there, leaning into him, waiting. Dean's behind her; Sam doesn't have to look to know he's strung as tight as Sam is himself.

"Are you staying?" Kasey asks. Her voice is little more than a whisper but her hand is steady on Sam's arm and when he nods, unable to find his voice, she tangles her fingers in his hair. He follows her lead, bending down to brush his mouth over hers, focusing on her, definitely not on his brother, no matter how aware he is of Dean--and how much he knows Dean is aware of him. Kasey starts off quick and light, easing him into it kiss by kiss, until Sam's got his hands on her waist and she's worked hers up under his shirt.

"C'mon, kids," Dean says. "Bedroom." He steps up close behind Kasey, his hands sliding around her waist, along and over Sam's, and Sam can't not gasp.

"Control freak," Kasey murmurs, kissing Sam one more time before she looks back over her shoulder at Dean. "What's wrong with right here?"

"Not a thing, darlin'," Dean tells her. "I was just trying for something a little classier." Sam can feel the tension in the muscles that lie under the skin next to his. Kasey must feel it, too, because she lets go of Sam long enough to curl an arm back and drag Dean closer, so she can kiss him, longer and deeper than she's been kissing Sam.

"It's okay, baby," she says, pulling back just enough to talk, her mouth still against Dean's. Even in the middle of all that's really not right in his head, Sam can hear the affection in her voice. "It's all good." Dean's mouth quirks up, not quite a smile, and he relaxes a tiny bit before he kisses her, hard. When she turns back to Sam and licks into his mouth, he can taste Dean and a jolt shocks through him when he realizes Dean's probably already tasted him.

If Sam thinks about it, he'll lose whatever control he's got, so he settles himself a little more firmly against the wall and focuses on the woman pressed close to him--her hands sliding up and under his shirt, nails raking a light path on the way back down--and not on the other hands that occasionally tangle with his own as he eases open buttons and fumbles with zippers, sliding the black Armani off and letting Kasey work his dress shirt open and his the t-shirt under it up. It's awkward and clumsy, but hotter than hell and Sam doesn't think that's just because there are three of them.

"You want it like this?" Dean asks, sliding his hands down so they span Kasey's waist, teasing at the elastic of her thong. Sam closes his eyes, just for a second, as the backs of Dean's fingers brush low on his belly, phantom touches that go straight to his dick. Dean's voice goes lower, hoarse. "You tell me, Kase..."

"Yeah," Kasey whispers, her hair falling over her shoulder, so Sam can't see her face. "Like this, right here." Her breath hisses in as Dean quits teasing and pushes her underwear down over her hips. She works her hand down, and Sam arches up as the heel presses sweet and hard along the length of his dick. He tugs at the button on his slacks, pulling them open, and groans when she gets his dick free, curving his hands around her hips to pull her closer and dropping his head back against the wall.

He doesn't have to open his eyes to know when Dean pushes into her, smooth and slow, an easy rocking rhythm that she mirrors on Sam. Dean is breathing in quick, tight gasps that tell Sam how hard he'd like to be going, but Dean's always had an iron-clad control when he wants it.

"That good, darlin'?" Dean says, leaning forward to bite along the curve of her neck, his hair sweat-damp and soft against Sam's skin. "You want more?"

"Don't be such a tease, Dean," Kasey pants. "It's really goddamn annoying."

Sam agrees, but that's nothing new. Dean just laughs, not changing his rhythm at all, and Sam slides one hand along the curve of Kasey's hip and down between her legs, slicks two fingers in her heat. He lets Dean's motion push her against him and sets his teeth against the whine that wants to slip free when she loses a little of her finesse and starts dragging her nails along his dick. He returns the favor, flexing his fingers to rub harder and faster, liking how Kasey almost growls against him and how Dean loses a little of that control and picks up his pace.

"C'mon, c'mon," Kasey gasps, then cries out, high and sharp, when Sam slides his hand lower and pushes a finger into her, moving smoothly alongside Dean's dick. Dean freezes, eyes locked on Sam's, and Sam's heart stutters at the sight of Dean, raw and open in front of him, not even trying to hide and Sam can't--won't--give him anything less in return. It's only for an instant, and then Dean's dropping his eyes and moving again, hard now, not holding back at all. Sam pushes a second finger in and Kasey keens low in her throat, coming with her face pressed into Sam's shoulder. It's Dean Sam's watching, though, the flush crawling down his throat, the quick, shuddering breaths that are catching in his chest.

"God," Kasey breathes, shifting so she can start jerking Sam off again, long strokes, slow and tight, just a little too rough to let him come right there. Dean lifts his head, still breathing hard, and Sam should look away, there's no way they can deal with all this on top of everything else, but he can't. He doesn't want to and he won't. He leans his head back against the wall again and tries not to shake apart as Kasey draws it out and out and out, until he needs something more than the wall at his back, until he's reaching out and anchoring one hand on Dean's hip, solid and strong and always there for Sam.

***

There's awkward--walking in on your brother fucking--and then there's _awkward_ \--getting handed a washcloth to get cleaned up after you've just helped your brother with the fucking. Dean's not looking at him, but Sam still doesn't know exactly what to do, especially once Kasey kisses him one last time and disappears into the bathroom. He's torn between moving as fast as he can to get his shirt back on and his pants buttoned and zipped, and taking as long as possible, just so he has something to pretend to be doing. Dean opts for the quick route, but then, it's okay for him to slide into the bathroom, too. Sam finally just sits down on his bed and goes back to not thinking.

He admits defeat when Dean saunters back out of the bathroom, one towel looped around his neck, a second riding low on his hips. Sam takes it all in a quick glance, then looks back down, only to be hit with a damp, balled-up towel.

"God, what?" Sam says. Dean just smirks at him. "Fuck," Sam groans. "You of all people can't be wanting to _talk_ about this."

"Hell, no," Dean says. "I just wanted to make sure you knew _you_ didn't want to talk about it either." He picks up a pair of clean boxers, shoving the towel down over his hips, and Sam can't not see the reddened spot, right on Dean's hip, the one he knows matches his own hand. It'll darken to a bruise before long--Dean's skin has always marked easily--and Sam's really not ready to think about why that's almost enough to get him hard one more time. Or why Dean doesn't say anything when he catches Sam watching, just pushes his feet into his boots and grabs a shirt and a key on his way out to wait for Kasey in the other room.

***

Kasey makes noises like she thinks they should stay, but Sam manages to find the words to say that he's fine, it was all fine. He's pretty sure she's not convinced, but he must have looked desperate enough that she takes pity on him and leaves with Dean. Sam showers and crawls into bed, and isn't all that surprised when the nightmares get amped up an extra notch. He sleeps, and then doesn't, and then sleeps again, a vicious cycle that he finally gives up on late in the morning. By the time he gets out of the room, the café is in the middle of the lunch rush, but they greet Sam like a long-lost relative and have him seated at his usual table in the back in no time. Deb drops a mug of coffee in front of him while he's still booting up his laptop, so he gives up the vague idea of looking at the menu and goes with a short stack and an extra order of bacon.

He clicks through the standard list--the half-dozen email address he keeps up with, a couple of mailing lists, the Onion, News of the Weird, stuff like that. There's a message from Bobby in one of their inboxes, which is unusual enough that Sam clicks it open first. Bobby's not like his dad was--he can use technology fine, he's just stubborn enough not to want to--but all it says is that they should stay out of sight for a little while longer. Sam finds himself reading with exaggerated care.

It's better than thinking about the feel of Dean's skin against his own.

He keeps his eyes glued to the screen while he eats, looking up only to thank whoever's putting food in front of him. It helps, some--the routine--settling him someplace where he doesn't feel like he's going to jump out of his skin. The food helps, too; when Deb breezes by to clear empty plates and refill his coffee, he's thinking clearly enough to realize it's way past her normal shift.

"Pulled a double," she says, when he asks. "Don't mind the extra cash, but it's messing with the end of the semester something awful."

"Oh, yeah," Sam says. "I've been there." Most of the time these days, Stanford's nothing more than the fading pictures in his wallet, but occasionally something will send him right back there. Usually it's a girl, someone who really doesn't look like Jess, but there's a flash of hair or a laugh and it's enough.

"I have a final English portfolio due," she says, balancing plates and glasses on one arm. "In two hours. It'd probably be better if I went over it again, but that's not likely to be happening."

The youngish couple two tables over catch her eye and she's off before Sam can answer, and when she circles around with the coffee again she's back to all business. Sam lets her go, but stops her as she drops the check on the table. "Look," he says. "I know this is a little odd, but… I could give your portfolio a quick look if you want."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I really have been there." Sam shrugs. "And it'd give me something to do." He laughs a little at the look of disbelief on her face. "Yeah, I know, but this place _really_ isn't my scene and I'm sick of staring at the suite."

"Look, I appreciate the offer, but I really can't--"

"Like I said, I know it sounds odd, but nobody's going to care if I sit here with my laptop, right?" She nods, so Sam keeps going. "I'm gonna be here for a while anyway and all I'm doing is staring at crap on the screen. At least I'd feel like I was doing something worthwhile."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"I'm the geek of the family," Sam says.

Deb looks at him for another couple of seconds, then shrugs and reaches into the front pocket of her black slacks. "Everything's marked ENG1102," she says, laying a jump drive on the table. "Please don't lose any files."

"I'll be careful," Sam promises.

"Swear to God, this job is never going to get normal," Deb mutters as she heads back toward the kitchen for a pick-up.

Truthfully, Sam isn't sure why he offered--good karma, paying forward help from unexpected sources, or a not-so-subtle subconscious attempt to replace his current reality with a part of the past--but once he finds the right files and starts reading, it's perfect. His brain has just enough to keep it occupied, and going through and smoothing over the standard freshman comp essays--Kate Chopin's use of symbolism, Tennessee Williams and his issues with women--has an easy nostalgia to it. He keeps a close eye on the clock, working steadily for an hour, until Deb has a break and can look over the changes before she disappears to send the files to her professor.

He signs for the check and is finishing off one last swallow of coffee when Deb comes back. "Thanks," she says, handing him an envelope that he knows has cash in it. He tries to not take it, but she stares at him, determined. "I appreciate your help, really. But…."

"It's better if it's strictly business," Sam finishes for her. "I get it." He does; he was the same for the longest time and never really got beyond letting more than two or three people cross over the line.

"Don't be leaving it as a tip either," Deb warns. She's smiling as she turns back to her other tables, but Sam knows she's serious. He shoves the envelope in his jacket pocket right as his phone vibrates with a text from Dean.

 _loading dock/10 min/don't forget your toolkit princess._

***

The damn hotel is so big it takes Sam all of the specified ten minutes and more to make it back up to the room and grab the backpack with his best set of lock picks and the good Maglite. Dean's pack is gone already, so Sam's assuming that they'll have all the basics. He just likes to have his own stuff.

Dean hisses at him from a partially open door when he finally figures out how to get around to the loading dock without being directed back to the more conventional guest areas, waving Sam over and all but dragging him inside.

"Ready to get your B&E groove on, Sammy?" Dean doesn't wait for an answer, just starts weaving through a maze of utility corridors, moving fast enough that Sam has to concentrate on keeping up in the dim light.

"All right," Dean says, coming to a sudden stop at a set of heavy double doors. His voice is low, not a whisper because the hiss carries, but the quiet that's one step up from hand signals. Sam wonders why he can remember his dad telling him shit like that when he finds himself forgetting so much else, but then Dean pokes him to make sure he's listening. "If I'm remembering right, on the other side is the back hall where all the dressing rooms and stuff are. There should be a prop room or something. I figure we start there and see what turns up. You set to pop a few locks?"

There are people around; Sam can hear muted voices, but Dean barely waits for Sam's nod before he's easing the door open and moving through, quick and clean and quiet. The hallway's narrow and curved, but lit well enough that it only takes Sam a couple of seconds to pick the lock on the door Dean points him to. All in all, they're in the hall for maybe ten seconds, which isn't bad, considering they're barely speaking to each other.

Sam doesn't bother looking for the light switch; Dean's already got the EMF meter and his flashlight out. Sam lets his own Maglite play over the room, rows of wardrobe racks and shelves, everything organized and labeled by hand. There's more stuff than Sam remembers being used in the show; Melina must like having everything nearby, whether she needs it or not.

Dean makes a disgusted sound, waving the EMF meter when Sam swings the light around to him.

"Nothing," he says. "I'm not even getting what I had up on the stage."

"Dean--" Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off.

"If it was left over from the last time, I'd at least be getting something," Dean says. "I was getting readings off the high side then, everywhere."

"Okay," Sam says. "So, what now?"

"We're gonna have to get into the dressing rooms," Dean answers, right as someone out in the hall starts shouting. " _Shit_ ," he swears, flicking off his light a split-second after Sam kills his own. Sam stays still until his eyes adjust to the tiny bit of light coming in under the door, then inches across the room to join Dean. The shouting outside ebbs and flows, but it doesn't seem to have anything to do with them. Which is good, but they're still stuck until whatever's going on gets settled.

Dean slides down the wall to sit next to the door. Sam's not sure whether to follow, but he feels stupid standing there, so he takes the wall on the other side of the door.

"I'm sorry," he says, into the darkness.

"Sam," Dean sighs. "Seriously. We do not need to share. It was what it was--"

"Not about last night," Sam says and wants to laugh at how fast Dean shuts up. "I'm sorry I just assumed Dad was who the letter was addressed to."

"Not that big a deal, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam says. "That's why you got so pissed off when I did it. I should have known it from the start." Maybe it's because sitting here in the dark reminds him of when they were kids, just him and Dean alone, but it's easier to say the things that have been needing to be said. And maybe it's easier for Dean to hear them, too, because there's no smart-mouthed comeback when Sam finishes. "I mean, Dad helped a lot of people, yeah, but most of them never really wanted to ask him back once he was finished."

"Could have used you then," Dean says. "Worst set of poltergeists I've ever seen. Kasey just about lost--" He breaks off at the unmistakable squawk of an emergency band radio just outside the door. They're both up and on their feet, barely breathing.

Dean presses up close to the door, listening hard. "EMTs?" he says. "Not cops, not security." Sam leans in, too, so he can hear, ignoring the solid heat of Dean right next to him. They're definitely listening to the familiar cadence of someone calling vital signs, while someone else is taking some serious heat from a pissed-off female voice that can only belong to Melina.

"Yes," she's saying. "Of course I understand Alexander needs to go to the hospital immediately; I'm the one who called you. But I want to know how his appendix could have ruptured so quickly. He was _fine_ an hour ago, and now you're telling me it looks like peritonitis?"

Her voice fades as they move past the door; Sam knows Dean's counting, probably to a thousand before he moves, just to make sure everyone's gone.

"This is the weirdest fucking case," Dean mutters. "What the hell gives a guy a ruptured appendix?"

"Beats me," Sam answers. "I'm thinking we should check his dressing room first."

"Good by me," Dean says, opening the door.

Sam gets the lock picks out again and he's a couple of seconds slower this time, but they're still back inside in less than a minute.

"Losing your touch, Sammy?"

There are days when Sam honestly wonders if Dean's even remotely aware what he's saying, or if the crap he dishes out is just on automatic. He isn't paying attention to Sam; he's got eyes for nothing but the EMF meter, but he still can't be quiet.

"Guess I'll never make master criminal now," Sam answers, because apparently he can't shut up either. "And speaking of losing your touch, are you getting anything or is this another gut feel that isn't quite working out?"

"A little higher than what I was getting on the stage, even that one spot where Cursed Boy fell--"

"Which is still not much of anything," Sam interrupts. Dean's being extra-thorough, but Sam can see the scale on the meter, and other than a quick flicker to three when Dean goes over the wardrobe rack, it's not budging past two lights.

"We've got a couple more rooms yet."

"Yeah," Sam says. "Sure."

"Dude," Dean snaps. "Give it a rest, okay? It's not like you haven't been having yourself a grand old time here with your dinner reservations and nifty new clothes." He mutters something else under his breath; all Sam catches is _fucking desert_.

"What?" Sam demands, grabbing the EMF meter out of Dean's hands so he has to look at Sam. "What about the desert?"

Dean glares at him, pure simmering rage in his eyes, which is _fine_ because Sam's got enough of that on his own to match Dean any day.

"I said, and it's not like giving me a little credit here isn't gonna be a drop in the bucket compared to what you owe me for the crap that went down in the desert."

"Oh, no," Sam all but snarls. "I _had it_. I had one last phrase--three _words_ \--in that ritual and I was done and you crossed the salt line and--"

"Fucking distracted the one that was about to take your head off, because, 'oh, no, Dean, I can handle it, no problem,' does _not_ mean I get to watch while something kills you ag--"

"--I _sent you with them_ ," Sam finishes, and he doesn't care that his voice is shaking. "I couldn't stop in the middle and it took you, too."

"I knew you couldn't," Dean says, very quietly, but clear and direct. "I knew it before I started moving."

"That's supposed to make it better?" Sam takes an extra second to try to get his voice back under control. "I see it every single night, over and over and over, and it doesn't matter that it's a dream now; it _happened_.

"Yeah," Dean says, in that same quiet voice and Sam knows there isn't an answer to any of it, but he can't not try.

"I just--" he starts.

"It all worked out," Dean says, like that's supposed to help. Sam would be really fucking pissed if it didn't sound like Dean's trying to convince himself as much as he is Sam. "We're here. We lived to tell the tale, man. You can't ask for much more in hunting."

"No," Sam says, the words bitter in his mouth. "I guess you can't." The room's quiet and still; Sam leans back against the wall and listens to Dean breathe.

"All right," Dean says, after a bit. "Let's try Melina's dressing room and see if anything turns up there."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Jesus, Sam, I don't know, okay? One fucked-up thing at a time."

Since that's about the best description of their life Sam can possibly imagine, he shrugs and follows Dean out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

"Got it," Dean says.

"What?" Sam says. "Your Spidey sense is tingling? How do you know?"

"Fine," Dean snaps. "Bring me the EMF meter just to be sure, but this is it."

Sam crosses the room in three quick strides, crouching down next to Dean to check out the pair of old-fashioned handcuffs Dean's poking with a pencil. The meter lights up like Christmas and Dean grunts with satisfaction.

"Will that burn?" Sam asks. Leather is pretty tough and there's metal there, too.

"Put enough lighter fluid down and anything'll burn," Dean says. "We're gonna have to do this somewhere else, though."

"Cursed handcuffs," Sam mutters, digging in his pack for the pair of heavy work gloves they keep around. "That's a new one."

"Handcuffs, paintings, whatever," Dean says. "Let's just deal with it and get the hell out."

"Sorry to interrupt," a female voice says and Sam knows before he even turns around that this is not good. Hearing Dean say, "Easy now, let's not get crazy," doesn't do much to change his mind.

Dean's got his hands out, clearly visible, but Sam's getting all kinds of alarms from how Dean's standing, poised and tense, ready to move.

"Up," says the woman. "Nice and slow and yes, I do know how to use this thing."

Sam stands, carefully, hands out like Dean's and turns around, not at all surprised to see Melina covering them both with a businesslike .38. From the way she's handling it, yeah, she probably does know how to use it.

"Look," Sam says. "This isn't what you think--"

"Really?" Melina snaps. "You two didn't break in here, go through all my stuff, and decide to steal the one thing of any real value?"

Dean's edging away from Sam, slow and easy, no more than an inch at a time but Melina isn't at all distracted and she waves him back so she can cover them both without turning.

"We need to take care of those cuffs, okay?" Dean's got that edge to his voice, the one that says he's about ten seconds from going ballistic, which is bad enough, but Sam can tell Melina's reading Dean as easily as Sam is, and given that she's the one holding the gun, that's about a hundred times worse.

"Of course you do," Melina says, waving Dean closer to Sam. "The market for them on eBay is out of control."

"Aw, hell, Sam, I think I'm offended." As far as Sam can tell, Dean hasn't taken his eyes off the gun for even a split-second. He hasn't either, but with Dean, that's usually the sign that he's gauging angles and distances.

"Easy, man," Sam mutters, pretty sure Dean's not listening.

"As much as I'd love to get a buck or two out of this gig," Dean says, "that whole cursed object thing keeps tripping me up. You know, like people who know every inch of the stage falling and breaking bones? Stuff like that."

"This sounds crazy, I know," Sam starts.

"I really don't care how it sounds," Melina interrupts, backing carefully toward the phone. "You can tell security. They should be real happy to listen, seeing as how they fucked up again today and let you scum get past."

"Okay, you know what? I've had about enough of this," Dean says, rolling up on the balls of his feet. Melina brings her second hand up to brace the wrist of her shooting hand and there's an instant like in the desert, where Sam can see everything that's about to play out, Dean going for the handcuffs and Melina shooting, and Sam doesn't think she'll be any too careful where she's aiming.

"Goddammit, Dean," Sam snarls, the adrenaline slamming through him. "Back _down_." He takes a half-step toward Dean, not even sure of what he's going to do. Melina shouts something that's lost in the sudden pounding of his heart but Dean stops. He's not happy about it; they're gonna fight this one out later, Sam can tell, but he can breathe again, at least until Melina starts running her mouth.

"Ohh," she says, derision oozing from every word. "There's a short leash. Don't forget to tell him what a good boy he is."

There had been a couple of times, fighting with Dad before leaving for Stanford, when Sam had been so mad he'd literally seen red. This isn't quite as bad--nobody but Dad will probably ever be able to hit all his buttons like that--but nothing much else felt like this.

Sam grabs a charging Dean with one hand and slaps the gun out of Melina's hand with the other. By some miracle, it doesn't go off as it bounces and skitters across the floor. Melina dives for it, but Sam gets one foot on it before she can reach it. He loses Dean in the process, though, unable to hold on when Dean twists back against their combined momentum.

Everybody freezes, eyes bouncing between each other and the gun and the phone and Sam's suddenly over it.

"Enough," he says, mostly to himself. He looks at Dean, still focused on the handcuffs, and then at Melina, clearly trying to decide whether she can reach the phone before anyone can get her and repeats himself. " _Enough_. You want your toy? Take it." Dean opens his mouth, ready to argue. "No, Dean, I mean it. I'm sick of this, of driving with one hand so I can keep you from bleeding out with the other, sitting still so the stitches you're putting in me won't scar, all so we can get up and do it again the next day."

He turns back to Melina and gestures toward the table. "Seriously," he says. "Take them. You want to pretend like nothing's going on, not even try to listen when somebody tries to explain, fine. I'm done watching him," he jerks his head toward Dean, "die over shit like this."

"Sam," Dean says, his voice low and urgent. "C'mon, man, we need to get rid of those, you know we do."

"No, we don't."

"You know that's what's doing it," Dean says. "We stop now and they're not going to figure out what's wrong with him--"

"I don't care," Sam interrupts. "We'll be going now," he says to Melina. "You can call security or whatever, but you might want to head to the hospital, because they're not going to be able to stop whatever it is they think is wrong with your cousin."

"And I suppose _you_ can tell me what's wrong with Alex," Melina says, still with the attitude.

"Aside from him probably being cursed?" Sam answers, shrugging. "Nah, I can't. I might be able to figure it out with some more research, but I can almost guarantee it's linked to those cuffs."

"And I should just give you them and you'll make it all better." Melina laughs, short and bitter. "Cursed handcuffs? I've heard some good scams in my time, but this one takes the fucking cake."

"Your choice." Sam crouches down to pop the clip, dropping it in the pocket of his coat before kicking the gun across the room. "C'mon," he says to Dean.

"Wait a minute," Dean says, not looking up from where he's studying the handcuffs. "Please," he adds, and Dean never _asks_ for anything. Sam shakes his head, but he stops and looks back at Dean. Dean nods once, then asks Melina, "How did Houdini die?"

"Ask him," she answers, all but snarling and looking at Sam. "He can research it."

"I'm asking you," Dean says. "I know already and he probably does, too; there's no telling what gets stored in that geeked-out head of his. I want to know if you know." She crosses her arms and stares at Dean, but since she isn't going for the gun or the phone, Sam's willing to let whatever Dean's working play out. For a bit. "C'mon, one question and we'll go."

"Fine," Melina snaps. "Houdini died of peritonitis from a ruptured appendix."

"Yeah," Dean says, smiling. "And what's the legend?"

"That it ruptured because some guy took him up on his claim that he could control his stomach muscles..."

Sam gets it at the same time Melina does, and finishes the sentence for her. "And sucker punched him. Nothing that actually has anything to do with the appendix, but the stories started before they even buried him."

"They think he might have ignored the pain from the appendix, thought it came from the punches." Melina's voice is subdued, but sure.

"And a couple of days before that?" Dean asks.

"He broke his ankle on stage during a show," Melina breathes. "Which is probably why he didn't avoid the punches."

"And the HH stamped on the leather, right at the base of the cuffs…?" Dean doesn't even have to point, but he likes the big moment and since he's been right all along, Sam's not going to give him a hard time about it.

"They're his," Melina says. "Houdini's. We won them at auction last week; Alex got to try them on before he brought them back here."

"Bingo," Dean says.

***

They end up needing acid to deal with the metal parts of the cuffs; Melina calls someone and has it delivered in less than ten minutes. She asks to stay with them, to see them take care of things, but otherwise doesn't say a word. She has a car waiting for her at the front desk; as soon as they finish up the salt and burn, she leaves for the hospital.

Sam expects Dean to disappear like he has been, but Dean rides the elevator up with him and when Sam gets out of the shower, he's still there, feet propped on the table in front of the couch and a rerun of _The A-Team_ murmuring quietly on the plasma screen.

Sam leans against the doorframe and watches for a little while. "I remember this one," he says when Dean turns around. "Face's college girlfriend turns out to be a nun."

"Yeah," Dean says, smiling. "And she's the chick from _Night Court_. Who knew the sisters were so hot?"

They stay like that until the episode ends, and Sam falls asleep to Dean whistling the theme music in the shower.

He doesn't sleep straight through, but he's not alone in his dreams and every time he wakes up during what remains of the night, he knows Dean's there, too.

***

It's nearly sunset when he wakes up for real, still not quite slept out even with losing an entire day, but miles better than anything within recent memory. There's a room service tray with a half-dozen donuts sitting on it and a note in Dean's worst scrawl, something about princesses needing their sugar fixes along with their beauty sleep. Seeing as Sam hasn't eaten since before they started the crap with Melina and her show the previous night, he doesn't really care what Dean calls him, especially not when he notices the bottle of milk sitting in the room's ice bucket.

Dean wanders in right as Sam is finishing his fourth, a raspberry-jelly-filled cruller that's almost enough to send Sam into a sugar coma. "Got a visit from one of Melina's boys," Dean says, reaching for the Boston-crème-filled one. "Alex made a miraculous recovery; the opening's going off as scheduled tonight; and there are tickets to the show and the after-party waiting for us if we want them."

"Do we?" Sam asks, chugging the milk before Dean decides he needs that, too.

"It's not like we get invites to shit like this all the time." Dean eyes the now-empty bottle of milk in Sam's hand and grabs a bottle of water from the bar.

"Or ever," Sam says.

"That, too," Dean agrees. He pulls out a second bottle and tosses it to Sam. "You in?"

"Yeah," Sam says, a little surprised at even being asked. "Sure."

"Then shake a leg, princess. Showtime's in a couple hours and I'm gonna need more than sugar and grease before then."

One shower, two steaks and four mini-bottles of Jack later, they're front and center as Melina slams it into overdrive and puts an end to all the whispers and snide comments about how she's a pale imitation of the real thing. Even with the personnel shifts she's made to deal with Alex not being there, she makes sure to cover any rough edges with the force of her personality. Sam doesn't begrudge her the three curtain calls. Much.

The after-party in VIP at the biggest club at the hotel is more or less what Sam expected: crowded and loud, bars everywhere he turns, and the extra-special touch of girls in lingerie seeding the dance floors. He ends up in a corner, nursing a double shot of ouzo and watching Dean hold court at the main bar. He wouldn't have said it was Dean's scene either--he knows the techno has to be nearly causing Dean physical pain--but that's the thing about Dean: when he wants someplace to be his scene, it is.

And Dean's definitely decided to make it his scene tonight. There's a group of girls rocking the sequin and mini-skirt look, and whatever Dean's saying to them has them laughing and practically adopting him. The bartenders are dropping shots in front of him whenever one of them walks by, and even Melina stops and graces him with her presence as she arrives with her entourage.

Even in the dim lighting, Sam can see Dean's smile flashing and how he's lounging against the bar, legs and body stretched out lazy and relaxed. That's nothing new--Dean was that long before Sam was old enough to legally be in the bars watching him. Since the other night, though, with Kasey, he doesn't just know how Dean looks, he knows how he _feels_ , warm and heavy and strong against Sam.

Maybe it's the ouzo on top of the Jack, but Sam can't shake the low, whispering ache to feel it again. He finishes off what he's got in his glass, one quick swallow that all but rips the skin from his throat, and goes to find someplace a little more quiet where he can get himself under control.

The club has everything anyone could want, even small alcoves that are little more than giant couches, shielded from the noise. The first two he passes are otherwise occupied, but the third one's free and he drops carelessly down on the cushions. These last months have done a number on him and he needs to get his act together before things with Dean slide completely out of control.

"Dude," Dean says, appearing out of what seems like nowhere. "You took off like a bat out of hell. You okay?"

Sam can't help laughing at how very not okay he is, even though he knows he's freaking Dean out.

"Seriously, Sammy." Dean hauls him to his feet, gives him a little shake. "How much have you had to drink? Because, yeah, it's been a hell of a week, but c'mon, the crazy-ass bitch who had a gun on us is still flitting around here, so I vote for the low-alcohol plan."

"I'm not drunk," Sam says. "I'm not."

"Then what the hell's your problem?"

All Sam's life, he's been the one who was good with words, who could write anything in no time at all, argue any side he felt like, whether he agreed or not. Words have always been his friends, but tonight there's nothing but Dean, his hand still curled in the front of Sam's shirt, warm and alive against Sam's skin.

"This," he says simply, leaning down to brush his mouth over Dean's, warm and soft and the slightest scratch of stubble, pulling back after a second and waiting for Dean's reaction. Dean stays quiet, still, like he's on a hunt and processing everything in front of him before he explodes into action, and Sam leans back in, before whatever's going to happen starts; kisses him again, more than the first time but still careful and controlled, slow press of Dean's mouth against his. Dean's been drinking ouzo, too; Sam tastes anise, sweet and nostalgic, like the hard black candy Pastor Jim shared from his desk drawers.

"Sam," Dean says, letting go of Sam's shirt. Sam gets set to step away before Dean can push him, but all Dean does is lay his hand flat on Sam's chest, right over his heart. "Sam," he says again, and this time, Sam hears things that fit into everything he can't find the words to say. That's right, he thinks; Dean knows how to say things without words so much better than Sam has ever learned. This time, when he leans in, Dean moves with him, into him. In Dean-speak, it's an engraved invitation to kiss for real, slow at first, aching want sliding hot and languid through his veins until Dean catches his bottom lip in a careful bite, exactly sharp enough to rock Sam back, hissing.

Dean watches him, still with the hunter's eye, until Sam smiles and slides his tongue over where Dean's marked him, challenging, daring. Dean takes him up on it, pressing Sam back into the couch, pushing him down and following him, dragging his hand through Sam's hair to hold his head steady and _fuck_ , Sam thinks as Dean's mouth comes down on his own. Fuckfuckfuck, this is happening and not stopping and Dean wants it as much as Sam does.

Dean kisses like he hunts, focused and sharp and hungry, like he's only going to get one shot and he's damn sure not going to miss. Sam opens his mouth and lets Dean's tongue push inside, shivering at the easy way Dean takes what he wants, at how fucking turned on he is, from nothing more than a kiss. He arches up against Dean, rocking into him, slow heat building in his thighs and belly and dick.

"Wait," Sam gasps. Dean freezes and Sam knows he's a split second from running, knows it was the wrong thing to say. He grabs Dean before he can pull away completely, words spilling out in a rush. "No, not stop, I just…not here." He can feel Dean's pulse racing under his hand, and feels it jump even more when he brings Dean's wrist to his mouth bites a soft kiss on the underside; licks, careful and deliberate, tracing the veins with his tongue. "Come back upstairs with me?"

Dean stills for long seconds, his eyes dark and serious, and Sam doesn't bother to hide the tremor in his hand when he reaches up to trace along the jaw he knows can set hard with determination, hardly daring to breathe for fear Dean's going to feel like he should stop them. He's lucky, though; Dean lets him touch, closes his eyes and swallows hard and follows when Sam stands.

The sudden quiet outside the club strips off another layer of camouflage, but Sam doesn't hesitate and he doesn't think Dean is either. They stand close in the elevator, pushed together by the other people already on board, but they don't separate once they're in the hallway and walking toward the door.

Sam crowds close as Dean swipes the key and then they're inside and Dean has him up against the wall almost before the door closes.

"Yeah," Sam pants, tilting his head back as soon as Dean lets go of his mouth, encouraging the scrape of teeth under his jaw. He grabs Dean's hips, pulling him in close, shivering at the hard rub of Dean's dick against his own, spreading his legs and arching up into him with clumsy, fumbling jerks.

"God, _yes_ ," he hisses, every time Dean bites down. "Yes, yes, yes." Dean latches on to the spot at the base of Sam's throat, sharp nips and quick, flickering licks and hard suction, latches on and doesn't stop. Sam's shaking and whining, grinding his dick up into Dean's.

"Fuck, Dean," Sam chokes out. "Could come right here, I, you could make me come like this." Dean growls, the vibration settling deep under Sam's skin, and Sam doesn't care what he sounds like, whether he's whining or pleading; he wants _more_.

"Bed," he says, pushing Dean back, keeping one hand on him, pulling and dragging at shirts with the other. Dean moves willingly, hands weaving in and around Sam's, and they're down to just jeans by the time they stumble their way into the bedroom.

He pushes Dean down onto the bed, going to his knees in the same motion, sliding his hands along Dean's thighs and swallowing hard.

"Want you," Sam says, looking up at Dean, biting hard at his own bottom lip. "Want to taste you, suck you." He bites down again, harder, to keep from babbling, _so fucking beautiful, gorgeous, want to make you scream, never let you go_ , everything that he fully intends on saying, but not in the words that'll freak Dean out. "Can I?"

"Christ, Sam," Dean groans, and Sam's never going to forget the thrill of making Dean sound like this. "You think I'm going to say no to that?"

Sam ducks his head so Dean won't read the truth in his eyes. He makes his fingers, still clumsy and stupid, work at getting Dean's belt undone, but Dean sees through his pretense.

"I wouldn't," Dean says, hoarse and raw, his fingers combing through Sam's hair. "I'm not--God help me, but I'm not saying no now and I'm not gonna be saying it later."

Sam nods and leans into Dean for a second, rubs his cheek against the soft, worn cotton of Dean's jeans before he goes back to the belt and button and zipper. His hands are steadier now and it's short work to get Dean the way Sam wants him, naked and spread out, waiting only for Sam.

He takes his time; looks, then touches--thighs and abs, the smudgy bruises of his fingers along and under Dean's hips--and then finally tastes. Dean stays still beneath him, open and more patient than Sam's ever seen him, until Sam finally dips his head and traces his tongue along the length of Dean's cock and a long, slow shudder ripples through him. Sam licks again, as slow as he can make himself go, and then once again, coaxing Dean to helpless gasping before he takes the tip into his mouth with the barest of suction.

"Sam," Dean rasps, his hands knotted tight in the sheets, holding on so hard Sam can see the veins popping. "Fuck, _please_."

Sam relaxes his throat and lets Dean's cock slide, slow and steady, as deep as he can take it, then eases off and starts the whole thing again. Dean writhes under him, and he could grab at Sam, hold him down and make him stop teasing, but he's not, he's letting Sam draw it out, lying there, _taking_ it. Sam groans at the thought, Dean's cock deep in his throat. Dean will stay like this; Sam knows it for sure. He'll force himself to not to move, no matter what Sam does, until Sam tells him it's okay, or probably even after, because that's what Dean does with him. Sam takes Dean deep again, swallowing around his dick and petting the tight, hard muscles under his hands, before he lets Dean go and looks up at him.

"Dean," Sam says, swallowing hard at the rasp in his throat. "I want it; I want you fucking my throat."

"Sam--"

"I can take it," Sam says, voice still hoarse. "I want it." He drops his head and mouths across the top of Dean's dick, holding it in his mouth, slow, steady curve of his tongue along the crown, but nothing more, nothing but the tease until Dean groans and pushes deeper. He's still careful at first, but when his dick hits the back of Sam's throat and Sam whimpers around it, an eager greedy noise he's sure he's never made before, Dean's hand slides into Sam's hair, tangling tight, and Sam can feel the control starting to crack. Dean pushes in again, harder and rougher, his hand tightening in Sam's hair so that he couldn't move even if he wanted to, and Sam's not quite gagging but he's leaning in for more and that's _it_. Dean slams his hips up, again and again, and Sam can't breathe, can't move, doesn't know anything that isn't _Dean_ , his dick in Sam's throat, the weight of it and the heat, the taste. His own dick is hard and aching, rubbing and scraping against the zipper in his jeans and Sam thinks vaguely about getting his fly open, getting his hand on himself, but then Dean's coming and it's all Sam can do to take it.

Sam stays on his knees, leaning hard against Dean's leg, and tries to get the shaking under control, but Dean doesn't let him.

"Sam," Dean whispers, tugging on Sam's shoulders, his arms. "Sammy." Sam lets himself be pulled up, shifting and twisting until he's stretched out on the bed next to Dean, still strung tight with want and need. "Yeah," Dean says as his hands skim over Sam. "C'mon, let me, c'mon." His hands are quick and efficient, stripping Sam out of his clothes with the easy concentration Sam knows from a lifetime of Dean taking care of the things he loves, until there's nothing that can get in the way of Dean's hands, his mouth. Sam cries out--harsh, guttural--when Dean finally wraps a hand around his dick, but Dean isn't teasing. He strokes Sam slow and steady, covers Sam's mouth with his own and swallows down all the noises Sam can't help making.

Dean's hand is warm and callused; he figures out in a flash just how rough Sam likes it, and when he stops kissing Sam long enough to growl, "Can taste myself on you, Sam, all over you," Sam comes with a final high keen. Dean jacks him through it, stretching it out until Sam feels like he might shake apart and then slides down to lick Sam clean. He kisses Sam again, so that Sam can taste his own come, layered on top of Dean's, and then drags the comforter up and over them both and lets Sam wrap himself around him, not complaining even when it takes them hours to fall asleep.

***

Sam wakes up twice during the night, once when Dean shakes him, muttering, "Dude, my arm," and rolling him off his shoulder, and once when he loses the comforter during a nightmare, but after that, something in his brain turns off and he sleeps deep, so deep that he doesn't wake even when Dean gets out of bed. When Sam finally opens his eyes, Dean's standing at the foot of the bed, towel wrapped low on his hips and skin still damp from the shower. Exactly like two days earlier and wholly, fundamentally different. A drop of water slides down the back of his neck; Sam makes himself stay still, no matter how much his gut twists to taste it, chase the path right back up the curve of Dean's neck, strong and vulnerable and _Sam's_ , now.

That surge of possessiveness is almost as scary as the knowledge that the other bed is neat and tidy, clearly not slept in, meaning that he and Dean didn't just fuck. From the way Dean's dressing and carefully not looking at him, Sam's pretty sure he's feeling the same way. When Sam sits up, though, Dean doesn't walk away, and some of the tension in the room eases.

"I can't hang around here today," Dean says, reaching for his boots. Sam pushes down the memory of Dean's fingers, quick and competent, stripping them off before pushing his jeans down and standing naked in front of him during the night.

"Yeah," Sam says, swallowing the disappointment. Dean still being here is a big enough thing; Sam needs to stop being greedy and wanting more.

"I figure it's about time I see what's up with my baby." Dean stands up and starts going through his wallet. He glances at Sam, quick and sidelong, before he adds, "You want to come with?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam stutters. "Sure, yeah. Just let me..." He gestures towards the bathroom, acutely conscious of being naked under the sheet.

"Yeah," Dean says, nodding. He ducks his head, but Sam sees the flush under the fair skin at the collar of Dean's shirt, the same thought maybe occurring to Dean. "No rush. I'm gonna go have them bring her up from the garage, get something for breakfast."

Sam waits until Dean leaves before he dives out of bed for the shower, stumbling in his haste, not at all sure of what's going on, but not telling himself to calm down at all.

***

Dean has coffee and a steak burrito from the food court on the casino level waiting for Sam; the valets have a freshly washed and detailed Impala waiting for them both. Juggling cups and wrappers and napkins keeps them both distracted until they're safely out of the city and heading back south the way they came. Dean quits fussing about not having a proper trash bag--not that they've ever had one, but apparently, since she's so clean now, it's necessary--and pops a tape in as he accelerates, which effectively stops any conversations Sam might want to have before they even start, but that's okay. Dean's in a Skynyrd mood, and a bootleg live mood at that. It's warm enough that they need the windows down; between the sun and the car and Ronnie Van Zandt wailing over the guitars on _Simple Man_ , Sam has nothing to complain about, even if he doesn't know where they're going or if they're even going anywhere.

Dean's not just driving aimlessly, though; he pulls off Route 93 after less than an hour and Sam finds himself climbing out of the car, stretching out kinks and looking around at the visitor's center at Hoover Dam. He should have guessed; Dean loves shit like this, almost as much as he loves cars.

Normally, Sam would be checking the time every few minutes; feats of engineering are really not his thing, even before he factors in how easy it was to piss his dad off by not paying attention. He really doesn't give a damn how much water flows through the turbines or how many yards of concrete and steel it took to build the thing, but the sun's still out and the air is fresh, the wind whipping strong and brisk against his face. They end up standing along the railing, looking back across Lake Mead, shoulder to shoulder, easy with each other in a way they haven't been since long before Lilith reared her ugly head.

"I'm never not going to be stepping in front of you, Sammy," Dean says, still watching the sun dancing on the water.

"I'm never going to think it's worth it," Sam answers, turning his head to look at Dean, steady and serious, until he looks back, and Sam shrugs. "Never."

"Okay, then," Dean says, flipping his keys around the ring and letting them smack into his palm. "We're good."

"Yeah," Sam says, not lying at all. "We are."

  


  


***

Dean switches off from the Skynyrd on the drive back, popping in the lone Dead bootleg they have, the tape Sam found at a Goodwill for Dean's 21st birthday. He's a little ashamed whenever he sees it now; he bought it as much to score points against his dad in that last year before he left as to add to Dean's music collection. He's not surprised Dean still has it. It fits, mellower than Skynyrd, the melodies dipping and weaving between them, not covering things up like they're afraid to talk, but adding to what they've already said and strengthening what they don't need to.

Sam's stomach growls as Dean's coming up on their exit and Dean's smile flashes out.

"Hang in there, Gigantor," he says. "Almost there."

"Fuck off," Sam says, amiably. "Don't tell me you're not hungry, too." His eyes automatically scan the Gas-Food-Lodging signs as Dean brakes through the curve of the exit ramp. "Wait," he says. "Go left at the light."

"And I'm doing this, why?" Dean asks, but gets into the turn lane with his blinker on.

"Because I'm hungry," Sam answers.

"And the hotel with the free food is back the other way. There's what, seven? Eight? comped restaurants there."

"Ten," Sam says, catching sight of what he's looking for ahead on the right. "But this is better," he says, pointing Dean to the _Blue Ribbon Diner_ sign. "Right?"

"If you say so," Dean says, but he's smiling and pulling the Impala into the last space out front.

"I do," Sam answers. "And I'm buying," he adds, remembering Deb's cash still in his pocket.

They have to wait a few minutes, but a booth comes free before Dean gets bored enough to start making trouble. It's the kind of place that has one of those golf tee puzzles at every table and a mini-jukebox at the end of every booth. The menus look like they were typed on an actual typewriter before being slid into vinyl holders and they have three times as many kinds of pie as they have vegetables, even if you stretch the definition of vegetables to count onion rings and fries and deep-fried corn nuggets.

Dean grins when the waitress calls him, "Hon," ordering a hot open-faced roast beef sandwich, with mashed potatoes and double corn, and when she turns to Sam, he shrugs and says, "Make it two."

They're served on plates that are more like platters and everything's fresh and hot and real--the roast beef sliced thin and the potatoes made with enough butter and cream to jump-start a heart attack. Dean makes a show of looking at the desserts, but Sam knows he'll go with cherry a la mode and steal half of whatever Sam orders. Sam gets chocolate silk, mostly so Dean can complain that pudding in a crust isn't really a pie while he scrapes the plate clean.

The coffee's rich and hot; Sam could stay there all afternoon and into the night, but Dean asks for the check as soon as they clear the last few plates. He's in the bathroom when it comes, but the cash in Sam's pocket covers it fine, and even if it's generous on the tip, the whole place was pretty much perfect. Sam smiles and tells their waitress he doesn't need any change.

He waits for Dean outside, leaning against the passenger-side door and letting the sun bake away the last of the too cool AC. No thinking, no worrying, just the car solid at his back.

"Dude," Dean says. "I don't care if you did just buy me lunch, no sleeping on my girl. She's a lady."

"I'm sure she appreciates your respect," Sam says, opening his eyes and pushing off the car to open the door.

"Oh, you know she does. Never let me down yet." Dean looks sidelong at Sam, clearly ready to keep going if Sam isn't showing the proper attitude. "Way too much crazy shit out there to not be taking any edge I can, Sammy."

"I'm not arguing with you," Sam answers, and he's not, not about the car, at least. Dean nods, satisfied, and pulls out onto the street, away from the interstate. "Where're we going?" Sam doesn't really care; it's more idle curiosity than anything, but when Dean flashes him the skittering look, the one that means he's feeling guilty, Sam sits up straighter and eyes his brother curiously. "Dean? Something you want to share?"

"It's... nothing, man," Dean sighs. "I just…I've been playin' a little on the side, and I'm in this tournament at the Bellagio..."

"Playing a little what on the side?"

"Poker." Dean stares fixedly at the road in front of them and Sam has to look twice to be sure, but he's blushing.

"Poker," Sam repeats, like that will explain why his brother, who's spent a lifetime with a deck of cards in his pocket, would be embarrassed by the game he's supported them on, more than once--Sam grins, suddenly, remembering the stuff from the casino littered all over the suite when they checked in. "Just poker?" he says. "They play a lot of different games--"

"Texas Hold 'Em," Dean mumbles. Sam bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing right there.

"I'm sorry, I thought I heard you say you were playing that, wait, let me make sure I get your quote right, 'pretty-boy Texas TV shit.'"

"Sam--"

"Wait, wait, I forgot the part about how no self-respecting man would be caught dead playing it." Sam smiles as innocently as he can. "I know you've got a pulse, so I'm guessing you lost something else?"

"Shut up," Dean says. "It's not my fault you can't find a decent game of five-card draw in this tow--"

"Wait, is this where you've been?"

"Yeah," Dean says, quietly. "I should have just said, but I... I dunno. I haven't been sleeping much and it got me out of my head, y'know? Different game every day, nobody knowing who I was, nothing. Saying anything would've…"

"Jinxed it," Sam says, thinking of his odd days of doing nothing. "Yeah, I get it."

"I'd take you back by the hotel, but I don't have time before I'm supposed to be signing in, but you can have the car and--"

"No," Sam says. "I want to watch."

"Come again?" Dean takes his eyes off the road long enough that Sam smacks him.

"I can, right?" When Dean nods, Sam settles back in the seat. "Then I want to."

"Whatever, freak."

***

Sam's seen Dean play poker before, of course. He's spent his entire life watching Dean play poker, or more correctly, he's spent his entire life avoiding watching Dean play poker. But this is different. Dean's always serious when it comes to hustling, no matter where they are, but he almost always turns on the charm, plays down the part of himself that cut down his first shotgun before he finished elementary school, smiles and laughs and half the time people never even realize how much they're losing until Dean's long gone. Here, though, in the middle of ridiculous amounts of money and excess, Dean smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He plays with just a glance at his cards, with an attitude that says he doesn't need to be paying much attention, and pushes his luck on every hand, pulling back with just the right timing.

It almost doesn't matter what cards he's playing; the mindfuck he's throwing out has half the table off-balance. It's reckless and calculated and so utterly _Dean_ that Sam can't imagine anything hotter.

Sam catches Dean looking across the room at him, a quick glance between hands; he pushes back the instinctive reaction to look away, not let Dean see. Dean's eyes are hooded, but he knows. After that, every look ratchets the tension a tiny bit higher. Hand after hand, the stack of chips in front of Dean grows. Sam stops drinking after two beers, switches over to water, because he's not going to be even the slightest bit drunk for the rest of the night. Dean has a fresh Jack and Coke by his elbow the whole time, but Sam knows the girl working the table is taking them away only because the ice has melted, not because Dean's finished them.

It's like a secret pact, unspoken and hidden, and Sam's never wished total bankruptcy on so many people so quickly in his life.

***

Sam waits while Dean cashes out, takes the stack of twenties Dean hands him and silently follows him out to pick up the car. Dean doesn't look at him, but he doesn't have to. He knows, too. His voice, when he thanks the valets, is steady, but softer than usual, and he doesn't do much more than smile when one of them tells him she's the sweetest rebuild he's seen in a long time.

Sam just gets in the car.

"How far?" he asks, once Dean's got them back out on the street.

"Sam--"

" _How far?_ "

"Ten, fifteen minutes, in this traffic," Dean says, his voice still soft.

"Okay." Sam breathes deep, lets the air trickle out slowly. "I--okay."

"You were watching me," Dean says, not taking his eyes off the road. "The whole time; I could feel it."

"Yeah," Sam murmurs. "I know you could." His hand is itching to slide up Dean's thigh, feel the shift and clench of hard muscle under his palm as Dean drives. "Want to touch you, Dean, so damn bad."

"Sammy--"

"I don't know, Dean," Sam says, his voice fading out on him. "I know all the reasons why it shouldn't be this way; they just… they just--after everything else, I have a hard time thinking they matter. I want it. You." Even in the almost-dark of the car, Sam can see the muscles in Dean's throat working when he swallows hard.

"You don't fuck around, Sam," Dean says, at the next light. "I know that much."

"I don't," Sam agrees. He doesn't say, _You do_ , because he knows that's not what's going on.

"I'm not now," Dean says. "I don't know what this is or what you think it is, but I'm not fucking around."

"I know," Sam whispers. He can see the hotel on the horizon, the palm trees and their spotlights against the ornate facade and he reaches across and lays his hand high on Dean's leg.

***

Dean stays right next to Sam the whole way across the lobby, but when they get into the elevator, Sam wraps his hand around Dean's wrist and pulls him closer. He doesn't let go on the short walk to their room and Dean doesn't try to pull away. Sam holds on until they're inside and alone and together. He strips his hoodie off as soon as the door closes behind them, and his t-shirt's on the floor before he gets two steps inside the suite. He stops at the door to the bedroom, balancing against it while he deals with boots and socks, and then it's easy to shove his jeans and boxers down over his hips and crawl naked onto the bed.

"Jesus, Sam," Dean says from the doorway. Sam wraps his hand around his dick, long slow strokes that Dean follows with his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you," Sam says, rubbing his thumb over the head of his dick. "I want you to fuck me."

He half-expects Dean to balk at it, and he's prepared to fight dirty if he has to, but Dean just pulls his t-shirt over his head and crouches down to unlace his boots. Sam keeps his rhythm steady, easy; there's no way he's getting himself off, not tonight.

Dean stops at the edge of the bed, trails his hand up the inside of Sam's thigh, whisper-light touch that has Sam gasping and spreading his legs wider. Dean curves his mouth in a possessive, hungry smile that says he knows just how he's going to make Sam wail.

"This your first time, Sammy?"

"Like it's not yours?" Sam says, setting his jaw hard against the whimpers that want to come out every time Dean touches a new bit of skin. "Oh, god," he gasps, as Dean flicks his index finger over Sam's nipples, scraping them with his nail and then catching them one after another in tight, twisting pinches.

"We're taking this slow," Dean says, and Sam knows if argued, he could make Dean change his mind, but Dean's gone back to the fleeting touches and Sam needs all his concentration just to keep from begging. He knows for sure Dean can make him whine and plead--and probably will before they're done--but he doesn't have to give it up right away.

Dean leaves him just long enough to grab rubbers out of his duffel and lotion from the bathroom, but then he's kneeling up on the bed and Sam gets to strip him out of his jeans, run his hands up Dean's thighs, cup his dick and balls in one hand and knead his ass with the other.

"I liked sucking you last night," Sam says. "I liked it when you let go and fucked my mouth, my throat."

"Such a filthy mouth," Dean breathes, fumbling open the lotion and slicking up his hand. "Keep talking."

"God, Dean," Sam groans as Dean pushes a finger into him, no teasing at all. "I know your dick now, can't wait 'til it fills me up, 'til you're fucking into me--"

His voice breaks when Dean works a second finger in, stretching him, opening him wide, but that's nothing in the next second, when Dean curves his fingers at exactly the right angle. Sam keeps talking, because that's what Dean wants, but he doesn't know what he's saying other than a crazy jumble of _please_ and _Dean_ and wordless noises.

Dean takes his time, fingering him deep, two fingers, then back to one, slick and deep, teasing until Sam moves with him, fucking himself, half-crazy and sweaty and begging for more.

"Roll over," Dean finally says, his voice as gone as Sam's. "C'mon, Sam, it'll be easier like that." Sam nods and whimpers a little when Dean's fingers slide out of him.

"Dean," Sam whispers, catching Dean's wrist in his hand, making him look at Sam. "I want this."

"Yeah, Sammy, I kinda figured that out."

"Not just... " Sam trails his hand down Dean's back. " _I want this_ ," he repeats and Dean stills.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah, okay." Sam leans up and kisses Dean, slow and long, not words, because Dean doesn't really trust them, but Sam's not good without them and this is the best he can do.

He doesn't stop kissing Dean until he has to, until he has to let go of Dean to breathe, and then he lets Dean roll him over. He raises his hips when Dean wants him to and spreads his legs and rocks back, keeping contact while Dean deals with the rubber and more lube and when Dean hesitates, Sam looks back over his shoulder and whispers low and hoarse how much he wants Dean, because he's never going to be able to say that too many times.

"Relax for me, okay?" Dean says, his hands shaking a little where they rest on Sam's hips. Sam breathes out, slow and steady, pushing all the tension in his muscles out with the air in his lungs, and feels Dean settle, too. It's easier than he thought to stay that way, even when Dean's thighs push his farther apart and the slick pressure of Dean's dick opens him up, spreads him wide and pushes inside. Dean's hard and thick and right as Sam thinks it's too much, right when he thinks he might lose that calm, Dean groans, "Fuck, Sam, _fuck_ ," his voice so alive Sam doesn't ever want to hear it any other way, and it's enough to keep him easy.

"Yeah," Sam gasps back, dropping down onto his elbows and putting his head down on the sheets, cool and silky against his skin, arching his back and lifting his ass high. "God, that's so good, Dean; c'mon, _c'mon_." Dean keeps the same steady pace, sliding deep and hot and sweet, fuck, so _sweet_ in Sam. "More," Sam says, pushing back into the burn, the stretch. "Dean--I want--"

Dean doesn't answer, not in words, but he doesn't stop, and his hands keep Sam steady, fingers holding tight on Sam's hips while he moves faster, harder, rocking into Sam with an ever rougher pace, until he finds the right spot, drags his dick over it, again and again, and Sam buries his face in the sheets, moans caught low in his throat that don't even sound human.

"Like that, Sam," Dean growls, fucking in harder. "Keep making those noises for me." One hand slides of Sam's hip and down to stroke his balls, rolling and squeezing them, stripping away the last of Sam's control so he's bucking wildly in Dean's grip, shaking and pleading, _Now, Dean, please, now, now_. He reaches back blindly, clawing Dean closer, wanting, _needing_ , more, needing Dean as crazywild as Sam is himself. Dean growls again, wordless this time, but possessive and demanding, like nothing Sam's ever heard from him before, and everything he's never known he's wanted.

"Please," Sam begs. "Pleasepleaseplease," and Dean listens, wrapping his hand around Sam's dick, fast strokes that walk the line of almost too hard, too harsh.

"Now, Sam." Dean's voice shakes, almost pleading. "Now."

Sam sobs once and comes hot and slick on Dean's hand, shaking and whimpering, not letting himself slide down until he feels Dean's smooth rhythm falter and knows Dean's coming, too.

***

"How long do you think we can stay?" Sam keeps one hand low on Dean's back; he likes the way it makes Dean lean into him, like he doesn't even know he's doing it.

Dean shrugs, a slow ripple of warm skin and muscle under Sam's hand. "Doesn't really matter," he says, reaching down for where his jeans are on the floor and passing Sam a wad of folded papers. Given the smug smile on Dean's face, Sam isn't all that surprised to see that he's holding receipts for cash placed in the hotel safe.

"How much?" he asks.

"Five, six grand," Dean says. "Plus what I won this afternoon."

"Hell," Sam says. "And here I was, feeling really proud I picked up forty bucks yesterday."

"You bought me lunch," Dean says, like that's a big deal.

"I guess," Sam says, stacking the receipts on the bedside table and putting his hand back on Dean. "What do you want to do next? Bobby still says we should lay low."

"Staying here works." Dean shrugs. "You said it early on--it's not like we hang out in places like this."

"Yeah, but do you want to?" Sam likes the way his thumb fits neatly between Dean's vertebrae; from how Dean stretches under him, he thinks Dean likes it, too.

"Not really my scene," Dean murmurs, crossing his arms under his head and using them as a pillow. Sam spiderwalks his hand a little higher. "We got clean laundry?"

"Yeah," Sam answers. "Everything's back. I think they might have ironed your boxers."

"Kinky," Dean says, slow and slurred, already more than half-asleep. Sam reaches the top of Dean's neck and starts back down and doesn't really care if they're staying or going.

***

Checking out's only slightly more difficult than checking in had been, but only because Dean has to sign for the cash from the safe at the front desk, and gets caught up with some executive-type. Once Sam makes sure it's nothing but a standard courtesy call, probably pegged to their comped reservation, he heads outside to have them bring the car up. They're backed up, but Sam's not really in a hurry. He leans back against a pillar and lets the heat sink into him, stretching out the little aches and soreness from the night before, straightening up only when he sees the flash of red hair following Dean through the revolving door.

"Hey, you," Kasey says, smiling. "No fair hiding out." She pokes him in the ribs. "Especially not when Dean's dodging me on where you're headed next."

"He's dodging me, too," Sam says, looking over her shoulder at Dean. "We're going; that's all I know." He doesn't think Dean's got a plan; they'd slept themselves out and woken up and started packing without much discussion at all. He figures they'll take the long way to Bobby's and then see if the rest of the world's stopped howling for their blood and decide from there, but there's not really any way to explain that.

"Sammy," Dean says, tossing him an envelope presumably full of cash as the Impala arrives. "I hooked her up with Bobby's number but give her an email address while I load up the trunk here."

Since that's code for _No way am I letting anybody near the weapons cache_ , Sam juggles his laptop case and the envelope and a pen without complaining. "I check this one pretty often," Sam says, writing as neatly as possible. "So if you need to get in touch with us, it should work."

"I'm pretty sure I already know the answer to this," Kasey says, "But what if I don't _need_ to get in touch with you, what if I just _want_ to?"

Sam gives a half-shrug and the same answer he's given all his life. "We move around a lot."

"That's what I thought." Kasey takes the page Sam tears out of the notebook. "Don't let him play blackjack. Really." She touches him quickly on the arm and turns away to where Dean's eying where the finish is still a little bit dulled from the desert, talking with the doorman about what the detailers did. Sam dumps his laptop in the backseat where he can reach it if he gets bored and/or driven to the brink of insanity and wonders if it's bad luck to count your money before you get out of the city. Dean says something that makes Kasey laugh, but she sobers up fast, shaking her head and answering right back.

"C'mon, darlin'," Dean says, as he gets into the car. "'No stupid risks' is my middle name." Kasey rolls her eyes, but Dean surprises the hell out of Sam when he leans out and adds, "I'll try." She nods and waves and Dean deliberately isn't looking at Sam as they pull out onto the road.

"We could go up north," Dean says, in that careful, disinterested voice that he thinks Sam doesn't know is nothing but a cover.

Sam nods, hiding his surprise. "Montana? Wyoming?"

"Jellystone," Dean says, smirking.

"Shut up," Sam says. "I was, what? Five?"

Dean snorts. "More like eight or nine. Talk about embarrassing, especially when I was trying to look cool."

"I was seven," Sam says, slotting the school and park he's remembering into their proper time. "And the high school girls you were so hot to impress were only talking to you because they thought it was so sweet that you took care of your 'adorable' little brother," Sam adds, quoting one Daphne Patterson of Manassas, Virginia, whom he knows Dean had a serious thing for. Dean waves one hand and Sam knows he's about to get into it, if for no other reason than to cover his tracks on actually wanting something. "Do you want to go there or not?"

"Yeah," Dean says, paying careful attention to the traffic light in front of them, slowing the car like he's in a defensive-driving video. "We could do that."

"Okay, then. Yellowstone, it is." Sam starts looking for the map book, twisting around to see if it's in the back seat. Dean stops him with a hand on the arm, his face suddenly serious. He reaches up, his hand sliding into Sam's hair, not quite pulling Sam down, hesitating at the last second, but it's so easy for Sam move the rest of the way on his own. Dean kisses him, slow and careful, and something inside Sam lightens at this, _them_ , being okay in the day, instead of just something they hide away in the night. He kisses Dean back until the light changes and the car behind them honks. Dean gives them the finger and then smiles, easy and bright, as he lets Sam up.

"Bet I can make you say Jellystone in front of a park ranger," Dean says, his smile shifting to the familiar maddening smirk, but Sam can't really be bothered to care. He digs under his seat and tosses Sam the map book. "Oh, no, wait, double or nothing, I can get you to ask after Yogi and Boo-Boo. Triple or nothing, I can do it without you being drunk."

"God, shut _up_ ," Sam says, not bothering to hide his own grin as he flips through the book and tries to figure out the best way. "We're not even on the highway yet."

"Oh, yeah," Dean says, turning on the radio and cranking the volume. "It's gonna be an awesome drive."


End file.
